U N IVER.5  ITY 
or  ILLINOIS 


<1V%, 


CHARLES  O’MALLEY 


The  Irish  Dragooh 


BY 

CHARLES  LEVER 


CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK 

BELFORD,  CLARKE  & CO 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY, 

THE  IRISH  DRAGOON. 


PART  L 


BY  CHARLES  LEVER. 


CHAPTER  L 

DALY’S  CLUB  HOUSE, 

The  rain  was  dashing  in  torrents  against  the  window-panes, 
and  the  wind  sweeping  in  heavy  and  fitful  gusts  along  the 
dreary  and  deserted  streets,  as  a party  of  three  persons  sat  over 
their  wine,  in  that  stately  old  pile  which  once  formed  the  resort 
of  the  Irish  Members,  in  College  Green,  Dublin,  and  went  by  the 
name  of  Daly’s  Club  House.  The  clatter  of  falling  tiles  and 
chimney-pots — the  jarring  of  the  window-frames  and  howling  of 
the  storm  without,  seemed  little  to  affect  the  spirits  of  those 
within,  as  they  drew  closer  to  a blazing  fire,  before  which  stood 
a small  table  covered  with  the  debris  of  a dessert,  and  an  abun- 
dant supply  of  bottles  whose  characterislic  length  of  neck  indi- 
cated the  rarest  wines  of  France  and  Germany;  while  the  portly 
magnum  of  claret — the  wine,  par  excellence,  of  every  Irish  gen- 
tleman of  the  day — passed  rapidly  from  hand  to  hand,  the  con- 
versation did  not  languish,  and  many  a deep  and  hearty  laugh 
followed  the  stories  which  every  now  and  then  were  told,  as  some 
reminiscence  of  early  days  was  recalled,  or  some  trait  of  a former 
companion  remembered. 

One  of  the  party,  however,  was  apparently  engrossed  by  other 
thoughts  than  those  of  the  mirth  and  merriment  around;  for,  in 
the  midst  of  all  he  would  turn  suddenly  from  the  others,  and  de- 
vote himself  to  a number  of  scattered  sheets  of  paper,  upon 
which  he  had  written  some  lines,  but  whose  crossed  and  blotted 
sentences  attested  how  little  success  had  waited  upon  his  liter- 
ary labors.  This  individual  was  a short,  plethoric-looking. 


CHARLES  a MALLET. 


white-haired  man,  of  about  fifty,  with  a deep,  round  voice,  and 
a chuckling,  smothering  laugh,  which,  whenever  he  indulged, 
not  only  shook  his  own  ample  person,  but  generally  created  a 
petty  earthquake  on  every  side  of  him. 

For  the  present,  I shall  not  stop  to  particularize  him  more 
closely;  but,  when  I add  that  the  person  in  question  was  a well- 
known  member  of  the  Irish  House  of  Commons,  whose  acute 
understanding  and  practical  good  sense  were  veiled  under  an 
affected  and  well-dissembled  habit  of  blundering,  that  did  far 
more  for  his  party  than  the  most  violent  and  pointed  attacks  of 
his  more  accurate  associates,  some  of  my  readers  may  anticipate 
me  in  pronouncing  him  to  be  Sir  Harry  Boyle.  Upon  his  left 
sat  a figure  the  most  unlike  him  possible;  he  was  a tall,  thin, 
bony  man,  with  a bolt-upright  air,  and  a most  saturnine  ex- 
pression; his  eyes  were  covered  by  a deep  green  shade,  which 
fell  far  over  his  face,  but  failed  to  conceal  a blue  scar,  that, 
crossing  his  cheek,  ended  in  the  angle  of  his  mouth,  and  imparted 
to  that  feature,  when  he  spoke,  an  apparently  abortive  attempt 
to  extend  toward  his  eyebrow;  his  upper  lip  was  covered  with  a 
grizzly  and  ill-trimmed  mustache,  which  added  much  to  the 
ferocity  of  his  look,  while  a thin  and  pointed  beard  on  his  chin 
gave  an  apparent  length  to  the  whole  face  that  completed  its 
rueful  character.  His  dress  was  a single-breasted,  tightly-but- 
toned  frock,  in  one  button- hole  of  which  a red  ribbon  was 
fastened,  the  decoration  of  a foreign  service,  which  conferred 
upon  its  wearer  the  title  of  Count;  and  though  Billy  Considine, 
as  he  was  familiarly  called  by  his  friends,  was  a thorough  Irish- 
man in  all  his  feelings  and  affections,  yet  he  had  no  objection  to 
the  designation  he  had  gained  in  the  Austrian  army.  The  Count 
was  certainly  no  beauty,  but,  somehow,  very  few  me'h  of  his  day 
had  a fancy  for  telling  him  so;  a deadlier  hand  and  a steadier 
eye  never  covered  his  man  in  the  Phoenix;  and  though  he  never 
had  a seat  in  the  House,  he  was  always  regarded  as  one  of  the 
government  party,  who  more  than  once  had  damped  the  ardor 
of  an  opposition  member,  by  the  very  significant  threat  of  “ sett- 
ing Billy  at  him.”  The  third  figure  of  the  group  was  a large, 
powerfully-built,  and  handsome  man,  older  than  either  of  the 
others,  but  not  betraying  in  his  voice  and  carriage  any  touch  of 
time.  He  was  attired  in  the  green  coat  and  buff  vest  which 
formed  the  livery  of  the  Club;  and  his  tall,  ample  forehead,  clear, 
well-set  eye,  and  still  handsome  mouth,  bore  evidence  that  no 
great  flattery  was  necessary  at  the  time  which  called  Godfrey 
O’Malley  the  handsomest  man  in  Ireland. 

“ Upon  my  conscience,”  said  Sir  Harry,  throwing  down  his 
pen  with  an  air  of  ill-temper,  “ I can  make  nothing  of  it;  I have 
got  into  such  an  infernal  habit  of  making  bulls,  that  I can’t 
write  sense  when  I want  it.” 

Come,  come,”  said  O'Malley,  “try  again,  my  dear  fellow.  If 
you  can’t  succeedj  I’m  sure  Billy  and  I have  no  chance.” 

“What  have  you  written  ? Let  us  see,”  said  Considine,  draw- 
ing the  paper  toward  him,  and  holding  it  to  the  light;  “ why, 
what  the  devil  is  all  this  ? you  have  made  him  drop  down  dead 


CHARLES  aUALLEY.  3 

after  dinner,  of  a lingering  illness,  brought  on  by  the  debate  of 
yesterday.” 

“Oh,  impossible!” 

“ Well,  read  it  yourself;  there  it  is,  and,  as  if  to  make  the 
thing  less  creditable,  you  talk  of  his  ‘ bill  for  the  better  recovery 
of  small  debts.’  I’m  sure,  O’Malley,  your  last  moments  were  not 
employed  in  that  manner.” 

“ Come,  now,”  said  Sir  Harry,  “ 111  set  all  to  rights  with  a post- 
script: ‘ Any  one  who  questions  the  above  statement,  is  politely 
requested  to  call  on  Mr.  Considine,  16  Kildare  street,  wbo 
will  feel  happy  to  afford  him  every  satisfaction  upon  Mr.  O’Mal- 
ley’s decease,  or  upon  miscellaneous  matters.’  ” 

“ Worse  and  worse,”  said  O’Malley.  “Killing  another  man 
will  never  persuade  the  world  that  I am  dead.” 

“ But  we’ll  wake  you,  and  have  a glorious  funeral.” 

“ And  if  any  man  doubts  the  statement,  I’ll  call  him  out,  ” said 
the  Count. 

“ Or,  better  still,”  said  Sir  Harry,  “ O’Malley  has  his  action  at 
law  for  defamation.” 

“ I see  I’ll  never  get  down  to  Galway  at  this  rate,”  said  O’Mal- 
ley; “and  as  the  new  election  takes  place  on  Tuesday  week, 
time  presses.  There  are  more  writs  flying  after  me  this  instant 
than  for  all  the  government  boroughs.” 

“ And  there  will  be  fewer  returns,  I fear,”  said  Sir  Harry. 

“ Who  is  the  chief  creditor  ?”  asked  the  Count. 

“Old  Stapleton,  the  attorney,  in  Fleet  street,  has  most  of  the 
mortgages.” 

“Nothing  to  be  done  with  him  in  this  way?”  said  Considine, 
balancing  the  cork-screw  like  a hair  trigger. 

“ No  chance  of  it.” 

“ Maybe,”  said  Sir  Harry,  “ he  miglit  come  to  terms,  if  I were 
to  call  and  say — you  are  anxious  to  close  accounts,  as  your 
death  has  just  taken  place.  You  know  what  I mean.” 

“ I fear  so  should  he,  were  you  to  say  so.  No,  no,  Boyle,  just 
try  a plain,  straight-forward  paragraph  about  my  death.  We’ll 
have  it  in  Falkner’s  paper,  to  morrow;  on  Friday  the  funeral 
can  take  place,  and,  with  the  blessing  o’  God,  I’ll  come  to  life 
on  Saturday  at  Athlone,  in  time  to  canvass  the  market.” 

“I  think  it  wouldn’t  be  bad  if  your  ghost  were  to  appear  to 
old  Timins,  the  tanner,  in  Naas,  on  your  way  down;  you  know 
he.  arrested  you  once  before.” 

“I  prefer  a night’s  sleep,”  said  O’Malley;  “but  come,  finish 
•the  squib  for  the  paper.” 

“ Stay  a little,”  said  Sir  Harry  musing;  “ it  just  strikes  me 
that  if  ever  the  matter  gets  out,  I may  be  in  some  confounded 
scrape.  Who  knows  if  it  is  not  a breach  of  privilege  to  report 
the  death  of  a member,  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I dread  the 
sergeant  and  the  speaker’s  warrant  with  a very  lively  fear.” 

“ Why,  when  did  you  make  his  acquaintance  ?”  said  the  Count. 

“Is  it  possible  you  never  heard  of  Boyle’s  committal?”  said 
O’Malley;  “ you  surely  must  have  been  abroad  at  the  time;  but 
it’s  not  too  late  to  tell  it  yet. 

“Welb  it’s  about  two  years  since  old  Townsend  brought  in 


4 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


his  enlistment  bill,  and  the  whole  country  was  scoured  for  ail 
our  voters,  who  were  scattered  here  and  there,  never  anticipate 
ing  another  call  of  the  House,  and  supposing  that  the  session 
was  just  over.  Among  others,  up  came  our  friend  Harry,  here, 
and  the  night  he  arrived  they  made  him  a ‘ monk  of  the  screw,’ 
and  very  soon  made  him  forget  his  senatorial  dignities. 

On  the  evening  after  reaching  town,  the  bill  was  brought  in, 
and,  at  two  in  the  morning,  the  division  took  place — a vote  was 
of  too  much  consequence  not  to  look  after  it  closely— and  a cas- 
tle messenger  was  in  waiting  in  Exchequer  street,  who,  when  the 
debate  was  closing,  put  Harry,  with  three  others,  into  a coach, 
and  brought  them  down  to  the  House.  Unfortunately,  however, 
they  mistook  their  friends,  and  voted  against  the  bill;  and,  amid 
the  loudest  cheering  of  the  opposition,  the  government  party  were 
defeated.  The  rage  of  the  ministers  knew  no  bounds,  and  looks 
of  defiance  and  even  threats  were  exchanged  between  the  minis- 
ters and  the  deserters.  Amid  all  this,  poor  Harry  fell  fast 
asleep,  and  dreamed  that  he  was  once  more  in  Exchequer  street, 
presiding  among  the  monks,  and  mixing  another  tumbler.  At 
length  he  awoke  and  looked  about  him — the  clerk  was  just  at 
the  instant  reading  out,  in  his  usual  routine  manner,  a clause  of 
the  new  bill,  and  the  remainder  of  the  House  was  in  dead  silence. 
Harry  looked  again  around  on  every  side,  wondering  where  was 
the  hot  water,  and  what  had  become  of  the  whisky  bottle,  and 
above  all,  why  the  company  were  so  extremely  dull  and  unge- 
nial.  At  length,  with  a half-shake,  he  roused  up  a little,  and 
giving  a look  of  unequivocal  contempt  on  every  side,  called  out. 
‘ Upon  my  soul  you’re  pleasant  companions — but  I’ll  give  you  a 
chant  to  enliven  you.’  So  saying  he  cleared  his  throat  with  a 
couple  of  short  coughs,  and  struck  up,  with  the  voice  of  a 
Stentor,  the  following  verse  of  a popular  ballad: 

‘‘  ‘ And  they  nibbled  away,  both  night  and  day. 

Like  mice  in  a round  of  Glo’ster; 

Great  rogues  they  were  all,  both  great  and  small. 

From  Flood  to  Leslie  Foster. 

“ ‘ Great  rogues  alL 

“ ‘ Chorus,  boys.’ 

If  he  was  not  joined  by  the  voices  of  his  friends  in  the  song,  it 
was  probably  because  such  a roar  of  laughing  never  was  heard 
since  the  walls  were  roofed  over.  The  whole  House  rose  in  a 
mass,  and  my  friend  Harry  was  hurried  over  the  benches  by  the 
sergeant-at-arms,  and  left  for  three  weeks  in  Newgate  to  practice 
his  melancholy.” 

“ All  true,”  said  Sir  Harry,  “ and  worse  luck  to  them,  for  not 
liking  music;  but  come  now,  will  this  do  ? — ‘ It  is  our  melancholy 
duty  to  annouce  the  death  of  Godfrey  O’Malley,  Esq.,  late  mem- 
ber for  the  County  of  Galway,  which  took  place  on  Friday  even- 
ing, at  Daly’s  Club  House.  This  esteemed  gentleman’s  family 
— one  of  the  oldest  in  Ireland,  and  among  whom  it  was  heredi- 
tary not  to  have  any  children ’ ” 

Here  a burst  of  laughter  from  Considine  and  O’Malley  inter- 
rupted the  reader,  who’with  the  greatest  difficulty  could  be  per- 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


5 


suaded  that  he  was  again  bulling  it.  “ The  devil  fly  away  with 
it,”  said  he,  “ I’ll  never  succeed.” 

“Never  mind,”  said  O’Malley;  “ the  first  part  will  do  admi- 
rably; and  let  us  now  turn  our  attention  to  other  matters.” 

A fresh  magnum  was  called  for,  and  over  its  inspiring  con- 
tents, all  the  details  of  the  funeral  were  planned;  and,  as  the 
clock  struck  four,  the  party  separated  for  the  nighty  well  satis- 
fied with  the  result  of  their  labors. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  ESCAPE. 

When  the  dissolution  of  Parliament  was  announced  the  fol- 
lowing morning  in  Dublin,  its  interest  in  certain  circles  was 
manifestly  increased  by  the  fact  that  Godfrey  O’Malley  was  at 
last  open  to  arrest— for,  as  in  olden  times,  certain  gifted  indi- 
viduals possessed  some  happy  immunity  against  death  by  fire  or 
sword,  so  the  worthy  O’Malley  seemed  to  enjoy  a no  less  valua- 
ble privilege,  and  for  many  a year  had  passed,  among  the  myr- 
midons of  the  law,  as  writ-proof.  Now,  however,  the  charm 
seemed  to  have  yielded,  and  pretty  much  with  the  same  feeling 
as  a storming  party  may  be  supposed  to  experience  on  the  day 
that  a breach  is  reported  as  practicable,  did  the  honest  attorneys 
retained  in  the  various  suits  against  him,  rally  round  each  other 
that  morning  in  the  Four  Courts. 

Bonds,  mortgages,  post-obits,  promissory  notes,  in  fact  every 
imaginable  species  of  invention  for  raising  the  O’Malley  ex- 
chequer, Jf  or  the  preceding  thirty  years,  were  handed  about  on  all 
sides;  suggesting  to  the  mind  of  an  uninterested  observer,  the 
notion  that,  had  thp  aforesaid  O’Malley  been  an  independent  and 
absolute  monarch,  instead  of  merely  being  the  member  for  Gal- 
way, the  kingdom  over  whose  destinies  he  had  been  called  to 
preside  would  have  suffered  not  a little  from  a.  depreciated  cur- 
rency and  an  extravagant  issue  of  paper.  Be  that  as  it  might, 
one  thing  was  clear,  the  whole  estates  of  the  family  could  not 
possibly  pay  one -fourth  of  the  debt;  and  the  only  question  was 
one  which  occasionally  arises  at  a scanty  dinner  on  a mail-coach 
road — who  was  to  be  the  lucky  individual  to  carve  the  joint, 
where  so  many  were  sure  to  go  off  hungry. 

It  was  now  atrial  of  address  between  these  various  and  highly- 
gifted  gentlemen  who  should  first  pounce  upon  the  victim,  and 
when  the  skill  of  their  caste  is  taken  into  consideration,  who 
will  doubt  that  every  feasible  expedient  for  securing  him  was 
resorted  to.  While  writs  were  struck  against  him  in  Dublin, 
emissaries  were  dispatched  to  the  various  surrounding  counties, 
to  procure  others  in  the  event  of  his  escape.  Ne  exeats  were 
sworn,  and  water-bailiffs  engaged  to  follow  him  on  the  high 
seas;  and  as  the  great  Nassau  balloon  did  not  exist  in  those  days, 
no  imaginable  mode  of  escape  appeared  possible,  and  bets  were 
offerM  at  long  odds,  that  within  twenty-four  hours  the  late 
member  would  be  enjoying  his  o^mm  cum  dignitate  in  his  Majes- 
ty’s jail  of  Newgate. 

Expectation  was  at  the  highest — confidence  hourly  increasing; 


6 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


success  all  but  certain — when,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  high-bound- 
ing  hope,  the  dreadful  rumor  spread  that  O’Malley  was  no  more. 
One  had  seen  it  just  five  minutes  before,  in  the  evening  edition 
of  Falkner’s  paper;  another  heard  it  in  the  courts;  a third  over- 
heard the  Chief  Justice  stating  it  to  the  Master  of  the  Rolls — 
and  lastly,  a breathless  witness  arrived  from  College  Green,  with 
the  news  that  Daly’s  Club  House  was  shut  up  and  the  shutters 
closed.  To  describe  the  consternation  the  intelligence  caused 
on  every  side,  is  impossible — nothing  in  history  equals  it,  ex- 
cept, perhaps,  the  entrance  of  the  French  army  into  Moscow, 
deserted  and  forsaken  by  its  former  inhabitants.  While  terror 
and  dismay,  therefore,  spread  amid  that  wide  and  respectable 
body  who  formed  O’Malley’s  creditors,  the  preparations  for  his 
funeral  were  going  on  with  every  rapidity.  Relays  of  horses 
were  ordered  at  every  stage  of  the  journey,  and  it  was  announced 
that,  in  testimony  of  his  worth,  a large  party  of  his  friends  were 
to  accompany  his  remains  to  Portumna  Abbey — a test  much 
more  indicative  of  resistance  in  the  event  of  any  attempt  to  arrest 
the  body,  than  of  anything  like  reverence  for  their  departed 
friend. 

Such  was  the  state  of  matters  in  Dublin,  when  a letter  reached 
me  one  morning  at  O’Malley  Castle,  whose  contents  will  at  once 
explain  the  writer’s  intention,  and  also  serve  to  introduce  my 
unworthy  self  to  my  reader.  It  ran  thus: 

“Dear  Charley, — Your  uncle  Godfrey,  whose  debts  [God 
pardon  him]  are  more  numerous  than  the  hairs  of  his  wig,  was 
obliged  to  die  here  last  night.  We  did  the  thing  for  him  com- 
pletely; and  all  doubts  as  to  the  reality  of  the  event  are  si- 
lenced by  the  circumstantial  detail  of  the  newspaper,  ‘ that  he 
was  confined  six  weeks  to  his  bed,  from  a’HJold  he  caught  ten 
days  ago  while  on  guard.’  Repeat  this,  for  it’s  better  we  had  all 
the  same  story,  till  he  comes  to  life  again,  which  may  be  will 
not  take  place  before  Tuesday  or  Wednesday.  At  the  same  time 
canvass  the  county  for  him,  and  say  he’ll  be  with  his  friends 
next  week,  and  up  in  Woodford,  and  the  Scariff  barony;  say  he 
died  a true  Catholic;  it  will  serve  him  on  the  hustings.  Meet  us 
in  Athlone  on  Saturday,  and  bring  your  uncle’s  mare  with  you — 
he  says  he’d  rather  ride  home;  and  tell  Father  MacShane  to 
have  a bit  of  dinner  ready  about  four  o’clock,  for  the  corpse  can 
get  nothing  after  he  leaves  Mountmelick,  No  more  now,  from 
yours  ever,  “Harry  Boyle. 

“ Daly’s,  about  eight  in  the  evening, 

“ To  Charles  O’Malley,  Esq,, 

“ O’Malley  Castle,  Galway,” 

When  this  not  over-clear  document  reached  me,  I was  the 
sole  inhabitant  of  O’Malley  Castle,  a very  ruinous  pile  of  incon- 
gruous masonry,  that  stood  in  a wild  and  dreary  part  of  tlie 
(Jounty  of  Galway,  bordering  on  the  Shannon;  on  every  side 
stretched  tJie  property  of  my  uncle,  or  at  least  what  had  once 
been  so;  and  indeed  so  numerous  were  its  present  claimants, 
that  he  would  have  been  a subtle  lawyer  who  could  have  pro- 
nounced upon  the  rightful  o\yner.  The  demesne  around  the 


CHARLES  O'MALLE?, 


7 


castle  containeu  some  well-grown  and  handsome  timber,  and,  as 
the  soil  was  undulating  and  fertile,  presented  many  features  of 
beauty;  beyond,  it  was  all  sterile,  bleak  and  barren.  Long 
tracts  of  brown  heath-clad  mountain,  or  not  less  unprofitable 
valleys  of  tall  and  waving  fern,  ^vere  all  that  the  eye  could  dis- 
cern, except  where  the  broad  Shannon,  expanding  into  a tran- 
quil and  glassy  lake,  lay  still  and  motionless  beneath  the  dark 
mountains;  a few  islands,  with  some  ruined  churches  and  a 
round  tower,  alone  breaking  the  dreary  waste  of  water. 

• Here  it  was  that  I had  passed  my  infancy  and  my  youth,  and 
here  I now  stood  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  quite  unconscious  that 
the  world  contained  aught  fairer  and  brighter  than  that  gloomy 
valley,  with  its  rugged  frame  of  mountains. 

When  a mere  child,  I was  left  an  orphan  to  the  care  of  my 
worthy  uncle.  My  father,  whose  extravagance  had  well  sus- 
tained the  family  reputation,  had  squandered  a large  and 
handsome  property  in  contesting  elections  for  his  native  county, 
and  in  keeping  up  that  system  of  unlimited  hospitality  for  which 
Ireland  in  general,  and  Galway  more  especially,  was  renowned. 
The  result  was,  as  might  be  expected,  ruin  and  beggary;  he  died, 
leaving  every  one  of  his  estates  encumbered  with  heavy  debts, 
and  the  only  legacy  he  left  to  his  brother  was  a boy  of  four 
years  of  age,  entreating  him,  with  his  last  breath — “Be  any- 
thing you  like  to  him,  Godfrey,  but  a father,  or  at  least  such  a 
one  as  I have  proved.” 

Godfrey  O’Malley,  some  short  time  previous,  had  lost  his  wife, 
and  when  this  new  trust  was  committed  to  him,  he  resolved 
never  to  re-marry,  but  to  rear  me  up  as  his  own  child,  and  the 
inheritor  of  his  estates.  How  weighty  and  onerous  an  obligation 
this  latter  might  prove,  the  reader  can  form  some  idea;  the  in- 
tention was,  however,  a kind  one;  and,  to  do  my  uncle  justice, 
he  loved  me  with  all  the  affection  of  a warm  and  open  heart. 

From  my  earliest  years  his  whole  anxiety  was  to  fit  me  for  the 
part  of  a country  gentleman,  as  he  regarded  that  character — 
viz.,  I rode  boldly  with  fox-hounds;  I was  about  the  best  shot 
within  twenty  miles  of  us;  1 could  swim  the  Shannon  at  Holy 
Island;  I drove  four-in-hand  better  than  the  coachman  himself; 
and  from  finding  a hare  to  hooking  a salmon,  my  equal  could 
not  be  found  from  Killaloe  to  Banagher.  These  were  the  staple 
of  my  endowments;  beside  which,  the  parish  priest  had  taught 
me  a little  Latin,  a little  French,  and  a little  geometry,  and  a 
great  deal  of  the  life  and  opinions  of  St.  Jago,  who  presided 
over  a holy  well  in  the  neighborhood,  and  was  held  in  very 
considerate  repute. 

When  I add  to  this  portraiture  of  my  accomplishments  that  I 
was  nearly  six  feet  high,  with  more  than  a common  share  of 
activity  and  strength  for  my  years,  and  no  inconsiderable  portion 
of  good  looks,  I have  finished  my  sketch,  and  stand  before  my 
reader. 

It  is  now  time  I should  turn  to  Sir  Harry’s  letter,  which 
so  completely  bewildered  me  that,  but  for  the  assistance  of 
Father  Roacb,  I should  have  been  totally  unable  to  make  out  the 
writer’s  intentions.  By  his  advice  I immediately  set  out  for 


CHARLES  aMALLEf 


Athlone,  where,  when  I arrived,  I found  my  tiucle  addressing 
the  mob  from  the  top  of  the  hearse,  and  recounting  his  mirac- 
ulous escapes  as  a new  claim  upon  their  gratitude. 

There  was  nothing  else  for  it,  boys;  the  Dublin  people  insist- 
ed on  my  being  their  member,  and  besieged  the  club-house.  I 
refused — they  threatened;  I grew  obstinate — they  furious.  ‘ I’ll 
die  first,’  said  I — ‘ Galway,  or  nothingl’  ‘ Hurrah!’  from  the  mob; 

* O’Malley  forever!’  And  ye  see  I kept  my  word,  boys — 1 did 
die;  I died  that  evening  at  a quarter  past  eight.  There,  read  it 
for  yourselves;  there’s  the  paper;  was  waked,  and  carried  out,, 
and  here  I am  after  all,  ready  to  die  in  earnest  for  you — but 
never  to  desert  you.” 

The  cheers  here  were  deafening;  and  my  uncle  was  carried 
through  the  market  down  to  the  mayor’s  house,  who,  being  a 
friend  of  the  opposite  party,  was  complimented  with  three 
groans;  then  up  the  Mall  to  the  chapel,  beside  which  Father 
MacShane  resided;  he  was  then  suffered  to  touch  the  earth  once 
more,  when,  having  shaken  hands  with  all  of  his  constituency 
within  reach,  he  entered  within  the  house  to  partake  of  the 
kindest  welcome  and  best  reception  the  good  priest  could  afford 
him. 

My  uncle’s  progress  homeward  was  a triumph;  the  real  secret 
of  his  escape  had  somehow  come  out,  and  his  popularity  rose  to 
a white  heat.  “ An’  it’s  little  O’Malley  cares  for  the  law — bad 
luck  to  it;  it’s  himself  can  lai  gh  at  judge  and  jury.  Arrest  him! 
na  bocklish — catch  a weasel  asleep,”  &c.  Such  were  the  enco- 
miums that  greeted  him  as  he  passed  on  toward  home;  while 
shouts  of  joy  and  blazing  bonfires  attested  that  his  success  was 
regarded  as  a national  triumph. 

The  west  has  certainly  its  strong  features  of  identity.  Had 
my  uncle  possessed  the  claims  of  the  immortal  Howard — had  he 
united  in  his  person  all  the  attributes  which  confer  a lasting  and 
an  ennobling  fame  upon  humanity — he  might  have  passed  on 
unnoticed  and  unobserved;  but  for  the  man  that  had  duped  a 
judge  and  escaped  the  sheriff,  nothing  was  sufficiently  flattering 
to  mark  the  approbation.  The  success  of  the  exploit  was  two- 
fold; the  news  spread  far  and  near,  and  the  very  story  canvassed 
the  country  better  than  Billy ’Davern  himself,  the  Athlone  at- 
torney. 

This  was  the  prospect  now  before  us;  and,  however  little  my 
readers  may  sympathize  with  my  taste,  I must  honestly  avow 
that  I looked  forward  to  it  with  a most  delightful  feeling.  O’Mal- 
ley Castle  was  to  be  the  center  of  operations,  and  filled  with  my 
uncle’s  supporters;  while  I,  a mere  stripling,  and  usually  treated 
as  a hoy,  was  to  be  intrusted  with  an  important  mission,  and 
sent  off  to  canvasst  a distant  relation,  with  whom  my  uncle  was 
not  upon  terms,  and  who  might  possibly  be  approachable  by  a 
younger  branch  of  the  family,  with  whom  he  had  never  any  col- 
lisioiio 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


CHAPTER  HI. 


MR.  BLAKE. 

Nothing  but  the  exigency  of  the  case  could  ever  have  per- 
suaded my  uncle  to  stoop  to  the  humiliation  of  canvassing  the 
individual  to  whom  I was  now  about  to  proceed  as  envoy  extra- 
ordinary, with  full  powers  to  make  any  or  every  amende,  pro- 
vided only  his  interest,  and  that  of  his  followers,  should  be 
thereby  secured  to  the  O'Malley  cause.  The  evening  before  I 
set  out  was  devoted  to  giving  me  all  the  necessary  instructions 
how  I was  to  proceed,  and  what  difficulties  I was  to  avoid. 

“ Say  your  uncle’s  in  high  feather  with  the  government  par- 
ty,” said  Sir  Harry,  “ and  that  he  only  votes  against  them  as  a 
rus  de  guerre,  as  the  French  call  it. 

‘^Insist  upon  it  that  I am  sure  of  the  election  without  him; 
but  that  for  family  reasons  he  should  not  stand  aloof  from  me; 
that  people  are  talking  of  it  in  the  country.” 

‘‘  And  drop  a hint,”  said  Considine,  that  O’Malley  is  greatly 
improved  in  his  shooting.” 

“ Anddon^t  get  drunk  too  early  in  the  evening,  for  Phil  Blake 
has  beautiful  claret,”  said  another. 

“ And  be  sure  you  don’t  make  love  to  the  red -headed  girls,” 
added  a third;  “ he  has  four  of  them,  each  more  sinfully  ugly 
than  the  other.” 

“ You’ll  be  playing  whist,  too,”  said  Boyle;  “ and  never  mind 
losing  a few  pounds.  Mrs.  B.,  long  life  to  her,  has  a playful  way 
of  turning  the  king.” 

“Charley  will  do  it  all  well,”  said  my  uncle;  “leave  him 
alone;  and  now  let  us  have  in  the  supper.” 

It  was  only  on  the  following  morning,  as  the  tandem  came 
round  to  the  door,  that  I began  to  feel  the  importance  of  my 
mission,  and  certain  misgivings  came  over  me  as  to  my  ability 
to  fulfill  it.  Mr.  Blake  and  his  family,  though  estranged  from 
my  uncle  for  several  years  past,  had  been  always  most  kind  and 
good-natured  to  me;  and,  although  I could  not  with  propriety 
have  cultivated  any  close  intimacy  with  them,  I had  every  rea- 
son to  suppose  that  they  entertained  toward  me  nothing  but 
sentiments  of  good  will.  The  head  of  the  family  was  a Galway 
squire  of  the  oldest  and  most  genuine  stock;  a great  sportsman, 
a negligent  farmer,  and  most  careless  father;  he  looked  upon  a 
fox  as  an  infinitely  more  precious  part  of  the  creation  than  a 
French  governess;  and  thought  that  riding  well  with  hounds 
was  a far  better  gift  than  all  the  learning  of  a Parson,  His 
daughters  were  after  his  own  heart — the  best  tempered,  least- 
educated,  most  high  spirited,  gay,  dashing,  ugly  girls  in  the 
country — ready  to  ride  over  a four- foot  paling  without  a saddle, 
and  to  dance  the  “ Wind  that  shakes  the  barley,”  for  four  con- 
secutive hours,  against  all  the  officers  that  her  hard  fate  and  the 
Horse  Guards  ever  condemned  to  Galway. 

The  mamma  was  only  remarkable  for  her  liking  for  whist,  and 
her  invariable  good  fortune  thereat;  a circumstance,  the  world 


10 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


were  agreed  in  ascribing  less  to  the  blind  goddess  than  her  own 
natural  endowments. 

Lastly,  the  heir  of  the  house  was  a stripling  of  about  my  own 
age,  whose  accomplishments  were  limited  to  selling  spavined 
and  broken- winded  horses  to  the  infantry  officers,  playing  a safe 
game  at  billiards,  and  acting  as  jackal-general  to  his  sisters  at 
balls,  providing  them  with  a sufficiency  of  partners,  and  making 
a strong  fight  for  a place  at  the  supper-table  for  his  mother, 
ThesegpaternaPandJfilial  traits, more  honored  at  home  than  abroad, 
had  made  Mr.  Matthew  Blake  a rather  well-known  individual  in 
the  neighborhood  where  he  lived. 

Though  Mr.  Blake’s  property  was  ample,  and,  strange  to  say 
for  his  county,  unencumbered,  the  whole  air  and  appearance  of 
his  house  and  grounds  betrayed  anything  rather  than  a sufficiency 
of  means.  The  gate  lodge  was  a miserable  mud  hovel,  with  a 
thatched  and  falling  roof;  the  gate  itself,  a wooden  contrivance, 
one  half  of  which  was  boarded,  and  the  other  railed;  the  avenue 
was  covered  with  weeds,  and  deep  with  ruts,  and  the  clumps  of 
young  plantains  which  had  been  planted  and  fenced  with  care, 
were  now  open  to  the  cattle,  and  either  totally  uprooted  or  de- 
nuded of  their  bark,  and  dying.  The  lawn,  a handsome  one  of 
some  forty  acres,  had  been  devoted  to  an  exercise  ground  for 
training  horses,  and  was  cut  up  by  their  feet,  beyond  all  sem- 
blance of  its  original  destination;  and  the  house  itself,  a large 
and  venerable  structure  of  above  a century  old,  displayed  every 
variety  of  contrivance,  as  well  as  the  usual  one  of  glass,  to 
exclude  the  weather  from  the  windows.  The  hall-door  hung  by 
a single  hinge,  and  required  three  persons  each  morning  and 
evening,  to  open  and  shut  it;  the  remainder  of  the  day  it  lay 
pensively  open;  the  steps  which  led  to  it  were  broken  and  fall- 
ing; and  the  whole  aspect  of  things  without  was  ruinous  in  the 
extreme.  Within,  matters  were  somewhat  better,  for,  though 
the  furniture  was  old,  and  none  of  it  clean,  yet  an  appearance  of 
comfort  was  evident;  and  the  large  grate,  blazing  with  its  pile 
of  red  hot  turf,  the  deep  cushioned  chairs,  the  old  black  mahog- 
any dinner- table,  and  the  soft  carpet,  albeit  deep  with  dust,  were 
not  to  be  despised  on  a winter’s  evening,  after  a hard  days  run 
with  the  Blazers.” 

Here  it  was,  however,  that  Mr.  Philip  Blake  had  dispensed 
his  hospitalities  for  above  fifty  years,  and  his  father  before  him; 
and  here,  with  a retinue  of  servants  as  gauche  Siud  ill-ordered  as 
all  about  them,  was  he  accustomed  to  invite  all  that  the  county 
possessed  of  rank  and  wealth,  among  which  the  officers  quar 
tered  in  his  neighborhood  were  never  neglected,  the  Misses  Blake 
having  as  decided  a taste  for  the  army  as  any  young  ladies  of 
the  west  of  Ireland;  and  while  the  Galway  squire,  with  his  cords 
and  tops,  was  detailing  the  last  news  from  Ballinasloe  in  one 
corner,  the  dandy  from  St.  James’s  street  might  be  seen  display- 
ing more  arts  of  seductive  flattery  in  another,  than  his  most 
accurate  insouciance  would  permit  him  to  practice  in  the  elegant 
saloons  of  London  or  Paris:  and  the  same  man  who  would  have 
“cut  his  brother,”  for  a solecism  of  dress  or  equipage,  in  Bond 
street,  was  now  to  be  seen  quietly  domesticated,  eating  family 


CHARLES  OmALLEY. 


11 


dinners,  rolling  silk  for  the  young  ladies,  going  down  the  middle 
in  a country  dance,  and  even  descending  to  the  indignity  of  long 
whist,  at  “ tenpenny  ” points,  with  only  the  miserable  consola- 
tion that  the  company  were  not  honest. 

It  was  upon  a clear,  frosty  morning,  when  a bright  blue  sky 
and  a sharp  but  bracing  air  seemed  to  exercise  upon  the  feelings 
a sense  no  less  pleasurable  than  the  balmiest  breeze  and  warmest 
sun  of  summer,  that  I whipped  my  leader  short  round,  and  en- 
tered the  precincts  of  “ Gurt-na-morra.”  As  I proceeded  along 
the  avenue,  I was  struck  by  the  slight  trace  of  repairs  here  and 
there  evident,  a gate  or  two  that  formerly  had  been  parallel  to 
the  horizon  had  been  raised  to  the  perpendicular;  some  ineffect- 
ual efforts  at  paint  were  also  perceptible  upon  the  palings;  and, 
in  short,  everything  seemed  to  have  undergone  a kind  of  attempt 
at  improvement. 

When  I reached  the  door,  instead  of  being  surrounded,  as  of 
old,  by  a tribe  of  menials  frieze-coated,  bare-headed,  and  bare- 
legged, my  presence  vvas  announced  by  a tremendous  ringing  of 
bells  from  the  hands  of  an  old  functionary  in  a very  formidable 
livery,  who  peeped  at  me  through  the  hall  window,  and  whom, 
with  the  greatest  difficulty,  I recognized  as  my  quondam  ac- 
quaintance, the  butler.  His  wig  alone  would  have  graced  a 
king’s  counsel,  and  the  high  collar  of  his  coat,  and  the  stiff  pil- 
lory of  his  cravat,  denoted  an  eternal  adieu  to  so  humble  a voca- 
tion as  drawing  a cork.  Before  I had  time  for  any  conjecture 
as  to  the  altered  circumstances  about,  the  activity  of  my  friend 
at  the  bell  had  surrounded  me  with  “four  others  worse  than 
himself,”  at  least  they  were  exactly  similarly  attired;  and,  prob- 
ably, from  the  novelty  of  their  costume,  and  the  restraints  of  so 
unusual  a thing  as  dress,  were  as  perfectly  unable  to  assist  them- 
selves or  others,  as  the  Court  of  Aldermen  w^ould  be,  were  they 
to  rig  out  in  plate  armor  of  the  fourteenth  century.  How  much 
longer  I might  have  gone  on  conjecturing  the  reasons  for  the 
masquerade  around,  1 cannot  say;  but  my  servant,  an  Irish  dis- 
ciple of  my  uncle’s,  whispered  in  my  ear — “It’s  a red  breeches 
day.  Master  Charles — they’ll  have  the  hoith  of  company  in  the 
house.”  From  the  phrase,  it  needed  little  explanation  to  inform 
me,  that  it  was  one  of  those  occasions  on  which  Mr.  Blake  at- 
tired all  the  hangers-on  of  his  house  in  livery,  and  that  great 
preparations  were  in  progress  for  a more  than  usually  splendid 
reception. 

In  the  next  moment  I was  ushered  into  the  breakfast-room, 
where  a party  of  above  a dozen  persons  were  most  gayly  enjoy- 
ing all  the  good  cheer  for  which  the  house  had  a well-deserv^ 
repute.  After  the  usual  shaking  of  hands,  and  hearty  greetings 
were  over,  I was  introduced  in  all  form  to  Sir  George  Dash  wood, 
a tall  and  singularly  handsome  man  about  fifty,  with  an  undress 
military  frock  and  ribbon.  His  reception  of  me  was  somewhat 
strange,  for,  as  they  mentioned  my  relationship  to  Godfrey 
O’Malley,  he  smiled  slightly  and  whispered  something  to  Mr. 
Blake,  who  replied — “Oh!  no,  no,  not  the  least,  a mere  boy — 
and  besides  ” — what  he  added  I lost,  for  at  that  moment  Nora 
Blake  was  presenting  me  to  Miss  Dashwood. 


12 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


If  the  sweetest  blue  eyes  that  ever  beamed  beneath  a forehead 
of  snowy  whiteness,  over  which  dark  brown  and  waving  hair 
fell,  less  in  curJs  than  in  masses  of  locky  richness,  could  only 
have  known  what  wild  work  they  were  making  of  my  poor 
heart,  Miss  Dash  wood,  I trust,  would  have  looked  at  her  tea-cup, 
or  her  muffiu,  rather  than  at  me,  as  she  actually  did  on  that 
fatal  morning.  If  I were  to  judge  from  her  costume,  she  had 
only  just  arrived,  and  the  morning  air  had  left  upon  her  cheek 
a bloom,  that  contributed  greatly  to  the  effect  of  her  lovely 
countenance.  Although  very  young  her  form  had  all  the  round- 
ness of  womanhood;  while  her  gay  and  sprightly  manner  indi- 
cated all  the  sans  gene,  which  only  very  young  girls  possess,  and 
which,  when  tempered  with  perfect  good  taste,  and  accompanied 
by  beauty  and  no  small  share  of  talent,  form  an  irresistible 
power  of  attraction. 

Beside  her  sat  a tall,  handsome  man,  of  about  five-and-thirty, 
or  perhaps  forty  years  of  age,  with  a most  soldierly  air,  who,  as 
1 was  presented  to  him,  scarcely  turned  his  head,  and  gave  me 
a half -nod  of  very  unequivocal  coldness.  There  are  moments  in 
life,  in  which  the  heart  is,  as  it  were,  laid  bare  to  any  chance  or 
casual  impression,  with  a wondrous  sensibility  of  pleasure,  or  its 
opposite.  This  to  me  was  one  of  those;  and,  as  I turned  from 
the  lovely  girl,  who  had  received  me  with  a marked  courtesy,  to 
the  cold  air  and  repelling  hauteur  of  the  dark-browed  Captain, 
the  blood  rushed  throbbing  to  my  forehead;  and,  as  I walked  to 
my  place  at  the  table,  I eagerly  sought  his  eye,  to  return  him  a 
look  of  defiance  and  disdain,  proud  and  contemptuous  as  his  own. 
Captain  Hammersly,  however,  never  took  further  notice  of  me, 
but  continued  to  recount,  for  the  amusement  of  those  about, 
several  excellent  stories  of  his  military  career,  which,  I confess, 
were  heard  with  every  test  of  delight  by  all,  save  me.  One  thing 
galled  me  particularly — and  how  easy  is  it,  when  you  have  begun 
by  disliking  a person,  to  supply  food  for  your  antipathy — all  his 
allusions  to  his  military  life  were  coupled  with  half -hinted  and 
ill-concealed  sneers  at  civilians  of  every  kind,  as  though  every 
man  not  a soldier  were  absolutely  unfit  for  common  intercourse 
with  the  world — still  more,  for  any  favorable  reception  in  ladies’ 
society. 

The  young  ladies  of  the  family  were  a well-chosen  auditory, 
for  their  admiration  of  the  army  extended  from  the  Life  Guards 
to  the  Veteran  Battalion,  the  Sappers  and  Miners  included;  and, 
as  Miss  Dash  wood  was  the  daughter  of  a soldier,  she  of  course, 
coincided  in  many,  if  not  all  his  opinions.  I turned  toward  my 
neighbor,  a Clare  gentleman,  and  tried  to  engage  him  in  conver- 
sation, but  he  was  breathlessly  attending  to  the  Captain.  On 
my  left  sat  Matthew  Blake,  whose  eyes  were  firmly  riveted  upon 
the  same  person,  and  heard  his  marvels  with  an  interest  scarcely 
inferior  to  that  of  his  sisters.  Annoyed,  and  in  ill-temper,  I eat 
my  breakfast  in  silence,  and  resolved  that,  the  first  moment'  I 
could  obtain  a hearing  from  Mr.  Blake,  I should  open  my  nego- 
tiation, and  take  my  leave  at  once  of  “ Gurt-na-Morra.” 

We  all  assembled  in  a large  room,  called  by  courtesy  the 
library,  when  breakfast  was  over:  and  then  it  was  that  Mr. 


CHARLES  a MALLE  Y. 


13 


Blake,  taking  me  aside,  whispered;  ‘‘Charley,  it’s  right  that  I 
should  inform  you  that  Sir  George  Dashwood  there  is  the  Com- 
mander of  the  Forces,  and  is  come  down  here  at  this  moment 

to What  for,  or  how  it  should  concern  me,  I wHs  not  to 

learn;  for  at  that  critical  instant  my  informant’s  attention  was 
called  off  by  Captain  Hammersly  asking  if  the  hounds  were  to 
hunt  that  day. 

“ My  friend  Charley  here,  is  the  best  authority  upon  that 
matter,”  said  Mr.  Blake,  turning  toward  me. 

“ They  are  to  try  the  Priest’s  meadows,”  said  I,  with  an  air  of 
some  importance;  “ but  if  your  guests  desire  a day’s  sport  I’ll 
send  word  over  to  Brackely  to  bring  the  dogs  over  here,  and  we 
are  sure  to  find  a fox  in  your  cover.” 

“ Oh,  then,  by  all  means,”  said  the  Captain,  turning  toward 
Mr.  Blake,  and  addressing  himself  to  him — “by  all  means;  and 
Miss  Dashwood,  I’m  sure,  would  like  to  see  the  hounds  throw 
off.” 

Whatever  chagrin  the  first  part  of  his  speech  caused  me,  the 
latter  set  my  heart  a throbbing;  and  I hastened  from  the  room 
to  dispatch  a messenger  to  the  huntsman,  to  come  oyer  to  Gurt- 
na-Morra,  and  also  another  to  O’Malley  Castle,  to  bring  my  best 
horse  and  my  riding  equipments,  as  quickly  as  possible. 

“ Matthe\v,  who  is  this  Captain?”  said  I,  as  young  Blake  met 
me  in  the  hall. 

“Oh,  he  is  the  aid-de-camp  of  General  Dashwood.  A nice 
fellow,  isn’t  he?” 

“ I don’t  know  what  you  may  think,”  said  I,  “ but  I take  him 
for  the  most  impertinent,  impudent,  supercilious ” 

The  rest  of  my  civil  speech  was  cut  short  by  the  appearance 
of  the  very  individual  in  question,  who,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  a cigar  in  his  mouth,  sauntered  forth  down  the 
steps,  taking  no  more  notice  of  Matthew  Blake  and  myself  than 
of  the  two  fox  terriers  that  followed  at  his  heels. 

However  anxious  I might  be  to  open  negotiations  on  the  sub- 
ject of  my  mission,  for  the  present  the  thing  w’as  impossible; 
for  I found  that  Sir  George  Dashwood  was  closeted  closely  wdth 
Mr.  Blake,  and  resolved  to  wait  till  evening,  w^hen  chance  might 
afford  me  the  opportunity  I desired. 

As  the  ladies  had  entered  to  dress  for  the  hunt,  and  as  I felt 
no  desire  to  ally  myself  with  the  unsocial  Captain,  I accompanied 
Matthew  to  the  stable  to  look  after  the  cattle  and  make  prepara- 
tions for  the  coming  sport. 

“There’s  Captain  Hammersly’s  horse,”  said  Matthew,  as  he 
pointed  out  a highly  bred  but  powerful  English  hunter;  “she 
came  last  night,  for,  as  he  expected  some  sport,  he  sent  his 
horses  from  Dublin  on  purpose.  The  other  will  be  here  to-day.” 

“ What  is  his  regiment?”  said  I with  an  appearance  of  care- 
lessness, but  in  reality  feeling  curious  to  know  if  the  Captain 
was  a cavalry  or  infantry  ofiicer. 

“ The th  Light  Dragoons,”  said  Matthew. 

“ You  never  saw  him  ride?”  said  I. 

“ Never;  but  his  groom  there  says  he  leads  the  way  in  his  own 

county,”  _ 


14 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


“ And  where  may  that  be?” 

“ In  Leicestershire,  no  less,”  said  Matthew 

“ Does  he  know  Galway?” 

“Nevft'  was  in  it  before;  its  only  this  minute  he  asked  Mosey 
Daly  if  the  ox-fences  were  high  here.” 

“ Ox-fences  I then  he  does  not  know  what  a wall  is  ?” 

‘‘Devil  a bit;  but  well  teach  him.” 

“That  we  will,”  said  I,  with  as  bitter  a resolution  to  impart 
the  instruction  as  ever  school-master  ^id  to  whip  Latin  grammar 
into  one  of  the  great  unbreeched. 

“But  I had  better  send  the  horses  down  to  the  Mill,”  said 
Matthew;  “ well  draw  that  cover  first.” 

So  saying,  he  turned  toward  the  stable,  while  I sauntered 
along  toward  the  road,  by  which  I expected  the  huntsman.  I 
had  not  walked  half  a mile  before  I heard  the  yelping  of  the 
dogs,  and  a little  further  on,  I saw  old  Brackely  coming  along  at 
a brisk  trot,  cutting  the  hounds  on  each  side,  and  calling  after 
the  stragglers. 

“ Did  3^ou  see  my  horse  on  the  road,  Brackely  ?”  said  I. 

“ I did,  Misther  CharleS;  and  troth  was  sorry  to  see  him;  sure 
yerself  knows  better  than  to  take  out  the  Badger,  the  best  steeple- 
chaser in  Ireland,  in  such  a country  as  this;  nothing  but  awk- 
ward stone-fences,  and  not  a foot  of  sure  ground  in  the  whole  of 
it.” 

“ I know  it  well,  Brackely;  but  I have  my  reasons  for  it.” 

“Well,  maybe  you  have;  what  cover  will  yer  honor  try  first  ?” 

“They  talk  of  the  Mill,”  said  I,  “but  I’d  much  rather  try 
‘ Morran-a-Gowh’  ” 

“ Morran-a-Gowl!  do  you  want  to  break  your  neck  entirely  ?” 

“No,  Brackely,  not  mine.” 

“Whose  then,  alannah?” 

“An  English  Captain’s,  the  devil  fiy  away  with  him;  he’s 
come  down  here  to-day,  and  from  all  I can  see  is  a most  impu- 
dent fellow;  so,  Brackely ” 

“ I understand;  well,  leave  it  to  me,  and,  though  I don’t  like 
the  ould  deer-park  wall  on  the  hill,  we’ll  try  it  this  morning 
with  the  blessing.  I’ll  take  him  down  by  Woodford,  over  the 
‘ Devil’s  Mouth  ’ — it’s  eighteen  feet  wide  this  minute  with  the 
late  rains;  into  the  four  callows,  then  over  the  stone  walls,  down 
to  Dangan;  then  take  a short  cast  up  the  hill,  blow  him  a bit, 
and  give  him  the  park  wall  at  the  top.  You  must  come  in  then 
fresh,  and  give  him  the  whole  run  home  over  Sleibhmich — the 
Badger  knows  it  all — and  takes  the  road  always  in  a fly;  a 
mighty  distressing  thing  for  the  horse  that  follows,  more  particu- 
larly if  he  does  not  understand  a stone  country.  Well,  if  he 
lives  through  this,  give  him  the  sunk  fence,  and  the  stone  wall 
at  Mr.  Blake’s  clover-field,  for  the  hounds  will  run  into  the  fox 
about  there;  and  though  we  never  ride  that  leap  since  Mr. 
Malone  broke  his  neck  at  it,  last  October,  yet,  upon  an  occasion 
like  chis,  and  for  the  honor  of  Galway ” 

“ To  be  sure,  Brackely,  and  here’s  a guinea  for  you;  and  now 
trot  on  toward  the  house,  they  must  not  see  us  together,  or  they 


CRAELES  OAI ALLEY. 


15 


might  suspect  something.  But,  Brackely,”  said  I,  calling  out 
after  liim,  “ if  he  rides  at  all  fair,  what’s  to  be  done?” 

‘•Troth  then,  myself  doesn’t  know;  there’s  nothing  so  bad 
west  of  Athlone;  have  ye  a great  spite  agin  him?” 

“ I have,”  said  I fiercely. 

“ Could  ye  coax  a fight  out  of  him  ?” 

“ That’s  true,”  said  I,  “ and  now  ride  on  as  fast  as  you  can.” 

Brackely’s  last  words  imparted  a lightness  to  my  heart  and 
my  step,  and  I strode  along  a very  different  man  from  what  I 
had  left  the  house  half  an  hour  previously. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  HUNT. 

Although  we  had  not  the  advantages  of  a “ southerly  wind 
and  clouded  sky,”  the  day  toward  noon,  became  strongly  over- 
cast, and  promised  to  afford  us  good  scenting  weather,  and,  as 
we  assembled  at  the  meet,  mutual  congratulations  were  ex- 
changed upon  the  improved  appearance  of  the  day.  Young 
Blake  had  provided  Miss  Dash  wood  with  a quiet  and  well-trained 
horse,  and  his  sisters  were  all  mounted,  as  usual,  upon  their  own 
animals,  giving  to  our  turn-out  quite  a gay  and  lively  aspect.  I 
myself  came  to  cover  upon  a hackney,  having  sent  Badger  with 
a groom,  and  longed  ardently  for  the  moment  when,  casting  the 
skin  of  my  great-coat  and  overalls,  I should  appear  before  the 
world  in  my  well-appointed  “cords  and  tops.”  Captain  Ham- 
mersly  had  not  as  yet  made  his  appearance,  and  many  conject- 
ures were  afloat  as  to  whether  “ he  might  have  missed  the  road, 
or  changed  his  mind,”  or  forgot  all  about  it,  as  Miss  Dashwood 
hinted. 

“ Who,  pray,  pitched  upon  this  cover?”  said  Caroline  Blake, 
as  she  looked  with  a practiced  eye  over  the  country,  on  either 
side. 

“ There  is  no  chance  of  a fox  late  in  the  day,  at  the  mills,” 
said  the  huntsman,  inventing  a lie  for  the  occasion. 

“ Then,  of  course,  you  never  intend  us  to  see  much  of  the 
sport,  for,  after  you  break  cover,  you  are  entirely  lost  to  us.” 

“ I thought  you  always  followed  the  hounds,”  said  Miss  Dash- 
wood,  timidly. 

“ Oh,  to  be  sure  we  do,  in  any  common  country;  but  here  it  is 
out  of  the  question — the  fences  are  too  large  for  any  one,  and, 
if  I am  not  mistaken,  these  gentlemen  will  not  ride  far  over 
this;  there,  look  yonder,  where  the  river  is  rushing  down  the 
hill — that  stream,  widening  as  it  advances,  crosses  the  cover 
nearly  midway;  well,  they  must  clear  that,  and  then  you  may 
see  these  walls  of  large,  loose  stones,  nearly  five  feet  in  height; 
that  is  the  usual  course  the  fox  takes,  unless  he  heads  toward 
the  hills,  and  goes  toward  Dangan,  and  then  there’s  an  end  of  it; 
for  the  deer  park  wall  is  usually  a pull  up  to  every  one,  except, 
perhaps,  to  our  friend  Charley  there,  who  has  tried  his  fortune 
against  drowning  more  than  once  there-’.’ 

“Look,  here  he  comes,”  said  Matthew  Blake,  “and  looking 
splendidly,  too — a little  too  much  in  flesh,  perhaps,  if  anything.” 


le 


(m  ARLES  mallet. 


‘‘Captain  Hammersly,”  said  the  four  Miss  Blakes  in  a breath 
‘‘ where  is  he  ?” 

“No,  it’s  the  Badger  I’m  speaking  of,”  said  Matthew,  laugh- 
ing, and  pointing  with  his  finger  toward  a corner  of  the  field 
where  my  servant  was  leisurely  throwing  down  a wall  about 
two  feet  high  to  let  him  pass. 

“Oh,  how  handsome — what  a charger  fora  dragoon!”  said  • 
Miss  Dash  wood. 

“ Any  other  mode  of  praising  my  steed  would  have  been  much 
more  acceptable.  The  word  dragoon  was  a thorn  in  my  tender- 
est  part  that  rankled  and  lacerated  at  every  stir.  In  a moment  I 
was  in  the  saddle,  and  scarcely  seated,  when  at  once  all  the 
mauvaise  honte  of  boyhood  left  me,  and  I felt  every  inch  a man. 

I often  look  back  to  that  moment  of  my  life,  and  comparing  it 
with  many  similar  ones,  cannot  help  acknowledging  how  purely 
is  the  self-possession  which  so  often  wins  success,  the  result  of 
some  slight  and  trivial  association.  My  confidence  in  my  horse- 
manship suggested  moral  courage  of  a very  different  kind,  and  I 
felt  that  Charles  O’Malley  curveting  upon  a thorough -bred  and 
the  same  man  ambling  upon  a shelty  were  two  and  very  dis- 
similar individuals. 

“ No  chance  of  the  Captain,”  said  Matthew,  who  had  returned 
from  a reconnaissance  upon  the  road,  “ and  after  all  it  is  a pity, 
for  the  day  is  getting  quite  favorable.” 

While  the  young  ladies  formed  pickets  to  look  out  for  the 
gallant  militaire,  I seized  the  opportunity  of  prosecuting  my  ac- 
quaintance with  Miss  Dashwood;  and,  even  in  the  few  and  pass- 
ing observations  that  fell  from  her,  learned  how  very  dif- 
ferent an  order  of  being  she  was  from  all  I had  hitherto 
seen  of  country  belleSo  A mixture  of  courtesy  with  naivete — 
a wish  to  please,  with  a certain  feminine  gentleness,  that  always 
fiatters  a man,  and  still  more  a boy  that  would  fain  be  one — 
gained  momentarily  more  and  more  upon  me,  and  put  me  also 
on  my  mettle  to  prove  to  my  fair  companion  that  I was  not  al- 
together a mere  uncultivated  and  unthinking  creature  like  the 
remainder  of  those  about  me. 

“ Here  he  is,  at  last,”  said  Helen  Blake,  as  she  cantered  across 
a field,  waving  her  hankerchief  as  a signal  to  the  Captain,  who 
fvas  now  seen  approaching  at  a brisk  trot. 

) As  he  came  along,  a small  fence  intervened;  he  pressed  his 
horse  a little,  and,  as  he  kissed  hands  to  the  fair  Helen,  cleared 
it  in  a bound,  and  was  in  an  instant  in  the  midst  of  us. 

“ He  sits  his  horse  like  a man,  Misther  Charles,”  said  the  old 
huntsman;  “ troth,  we  must  give  him  the  v/orst  of  it.” 

Captain  Hammersly  was,  despite  all  the  critical  acumen  with 
which  I canvassed  him,  the  very  heau  ideal  of  a gentleman 
rider;  indeed,  although  a very  heavy  man,  his  powerful  English 
thorough-bred,  showing  not  less  bone  than  blood,  took  away  all 
semblance  of  overweight!  his  saddle  well-fitting  and  well -placed; 
his  large  and  broad-reined  snaffle;  his  own  custume  of  black  coat, 
leathers,  and  tops,  was  in  perfect  keeping;  and  even  to  his 
heavy-handled  hunting-whip  I could  find  nothing  to  cavil  at.  As 
be  rode  up  he  paid  his  respects  to  the  ladies,  in  his  usual  free 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


17 


and  easy  manner,  expressed  some  surprise,  but  no  regret,  at 
hearing  that  he  was  late,  and  never  deigning  any  notice  of  Mat- 
thew or  myself,  took  his  place  beside  Miss  Dashwood,  with 
whom  he  conversed  in  a low  undertone. 

“ There  they  go,”  said  Matthew,  as  five  or  six  dogs,  with  their 
heads  up,  ran  yelping  along  a furrow,  then  stopped,  howled 
again,  and  once  more  set  off  together.  In  an  instant  all  was 
commotion  in  the  little  valley  below  us.  The  huntsman,  with 
his  hand  to  his  mouth,  was  calling  off  the  stragglers,  and  the 
whipper-in  following  up  the  leading  dogs  with  the  rest  of  the 
pack.  “ They're  found! — they’re  away!”  said  Matthew;  and,  as 
he  spoke,  a great  yell  burst  from  the  valley,  and  in  an  instant 
the  whole  pack  were  off  at  full  speed.  Rather  more  intent  that 
moment  upon  showing  off  my  horsemanship  than  anything  else,  I 
dashed  spurs  into  Badger’s  sides,  and  turned  him  toward  a rasp- 
ing ditch  before  me;  over  we  went,  hurling  down  behind  us  a 
rotten  bank  of  clay  and  small  stones,  showing  how  little  safety 
there  had  been  in  topping  instead  of  clearing  it  at  a bound.  Be- 
fore I was  well  seated  again  the  Captain  was  beside  me.  “ Now 
for  it,  then,”  said  I,  and  aw'ay  we  went.  What  might  be  the 
nature  of  his  feelings  I cannot  pretend  to  state,  but  my  own 
were  a strange  melange  of  wild,  boyish  enthusiasm,  revenge  and 
recklessness.  For  my  own  neck  I cared  little — nothing;  and,  as 
I led  the  way  by  hali  a length,  I muttered  to  myself,  Let  him 
follow  me  fairly  this  day,  and  I ask  no  more.” 

The  dogs  had  got  somewhat  the  start  of  us,  and,  as  they  were 
in  full  cry,  and  going  fast,  we  were  a little  behind.  A thought 
therefore  struck  me  that,  by  appearing  to  take  a short  cut  upon 
the  hounds,  I should  come  down  upon  the  river  where  its  breadth 
was  greatest,  and  thus  at  one  coup  might  try  my  friend’s  mettle 
and  his  horse’s  performance  at  the  same  time.  On  we  went, 
our  speed  increasing,  till  the  roar  of  the  river  we  were  now  ap- 
proaching was  plainly  audible.  I looked  half  round,  and  now 
perceived  that  the  Captain  was  standing  in  his  sthrups,  as  if  to 
obtain  a view  of  what  was  before  him;  otherwise  his  counte- 
nance was  calm  and  unmoved,  and  not  a muscle  betrayed  that  he 
was  not  cantering  on  a parade.  I fixed  myself  firmly  in  my 
seat,  shook  my  horse  a little  together,  and,  with  a shout  whose 
import  every  Galway  hunter  well  knows,  rushed  him  at  the 
river.  I saw  the  water  dashing  among  the  large  stones,  I heard 
its  splash,  I felt  a bound  like  the  ricochet  of  a shot,  and  we  were 
over,  but  so  narrowly,  that  the  bank  had  yielded  beneath  his 
hind  legs,  and  it  needed  a bold  effort  of  the  noble  animal  to  re- 
gain his  footing. 

Scarcely  was  he  once  more  firm,  when  Hammersly  flew  by 
me,  taking  the  lead,  and  sitting  quietly  in  his  saddle,  as  if 
racing.  I know  of  nothing  in  all  my  after  life  like  the  agony  of 
that  moment,  for,  although  I was  far,  very  far,  from  wishing  real 
ill  to  him,  yet  I would  gladly  have  broken  my  leg  or  my  arm,  if 
he  could  not  have  been  able  to  follow  me.  Aud  now  there  he 
was,  actually  a length  and  a half  in  advance;  and,  worse  than 
all,  Miss  Dashwood  must  have  witnessed  the  whole,  and  doubt- 
less hi«  the  river  was  better  and  bolder  than  mine. 


18 


CHARLES  OmALLEY. 


One  consolation  yet  remained,  and  while  I whispered  it  to  my- 
self I felt  comforted  again.  “His  is  an  English  mare — they 
understand  these  leaps — but  what  can  he  make  of  a Galway 
wall  ?”  The  question  was  soon  to  be  solved.  Before  us,  about 
three  fields,  were  the  hounds  in  full  cry;  a large  stone  wall  lay 
between,  and  to  it  we  both  directed  our  course  together.  Hal 
thought  I,  he  is  floored  at  last,  as  I perceived  that  the  Captain 
aeld  his  horse  rather  more  in  hand,  and  suffered  me  to  lead. 
‘ Now,  then,  for  it!”  so  saying  I rode  at  the  largest  part  I could 
lind,  well  knowing  that  Badger’s  powers  were  here  in  their  ele- 
ment. One  spring,  one  [plunge,  and  away  we  were,  galloping 
along  at  the  other  side.  Not  so  the  Captain;  his  horse  had 
refused  the  fence,  and  he  was  now  taking  a circuit  of  the  field 
for  another  trial  of  it. 

“Pounded,  by  Jove,”  said  I,  as  I turned  round  in  my  saddle 
to  observe  him.  Once  more  she  came  at  it,  and  once  more 
balked,  rearing  up,  at  the  same  time,  almost  so  as  to  fall  back- 
ward. 

My  triumph  was  complete,  and  I again  was  about  to  follow  the 
hounds,  when,  throwing  a look  back,  I saw  Hammersly  clearing 
the  wall  in  a most  splendid  manner,  and  taking  a stretch  of  at 
least  thirteen  feet  beyond  it.  Once  more  he  was  on  my  flanks, 
and  the  contest  renewed.  Whatever  might  be  the  sentiments  of 
the  rider  (mine  I confess  to),  between  the  horses  it  now  became 
a tremendous  struggle.  The  English  iSare,  though  evidently 
superior  in  stride  and  strength,  was  still  overweighted,  and  had 
not  besides  the  cat-like  activity  an  Irish  horse  possesses;  so  that 
the  advantages  and  disadvantages  on  either  side  were  about 
equalized.  For  about  half  an  hour  now  the  pace  was  awful. 
We  rode  side  by  side,  taking  our  leaps  exactly  at  the  same 
instant,  and  not  four  feet  apart.  The  hounds  were  still  consid- 
erably in  advance,  and  were  heading  toward  the  Shannon, 
when  suddenly  the  fox  doubled,  took  the  hillside,  and  made  for 
Dangan.  “ Now,  then,  comes  the  trial  of  strength,”  I said,  half 
aloud,  as  I threw  my  eye  up  a steep  and  rugged  mountain,  cov- 
ered with  wild  furze  and  tall  heath,  around  the  crest  of  which 
ran,  in  a zig-zag  direction,  a broken  and  dilapidated  wall,  once 
the  inclosure  of  a deer-park.  This  wall,  which  varied  from  four 
to  six  feet  in  height,  was  of  solid  masonry,  and  would,  in  the 
most  favorable  ground,  have  been  a bold  leap.  Here,  at  the 
summit  of  a mountain,  with  not  a yard  of  footing,  it  was  abso- 
lutely desperation. 

By  the  time  that  we  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill,  the  fox,  fol- 
lowed closely  by  the  hounds,  had  passed  through  a breach  in  the 
wall,  while  Matthew  Blake,  with  the  huntsman  and  whipper-in, 
were  riding  along  in  search  of  a gap  to  lead  the  horses  through. 
Before  I put  spurs  to  Badger,  to  face  the  hill,  I turned  one  look 
toward  Hammersly.  There  was  a slight  curl,  half -smile,  half- 
sneer upon  his  lip,  that  actually  maddened  me,  and  had  a preci- 
pice lyawned  beneath  my  feet  I should  have  dashed  at  it  after 
that.  The  ascent  was  so  steep  that  I w^as  obliged  to  take  the  hill 
in  a slanting  direction,  and  even  thus  the  loose  footing  rendered 
it  dangerous  in  the  extreme.  At  length  I reached  the  crest, 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


19 


where  the  wall,  more  than  five  feet  in  height,  stood  frowning 
above  and  seemed  to  defy  me.  I turned  my  horse  full  round,  so 
that  his  very  chest  almost  touched  the  stones,  and,  with  a bold 
cut  of  the  whip  and  a loud  halloo,  the  gallant  animal  rose,  as  if 
rearing,  pawed  for  an  instant  to  regain  his  balance,  and  then, 
with  a frightful  struggle,  fell  backward,  and  rolled  from  top  to 
bottom  of  the  hill,  carrying  me  along  with  him;  the  last  object 
that  crossed  my  sight,  as  I lay  bruised  and  motionless,  being  the 
Captain  as  he  took  the  wall  in  a flying  leap,  and  disappeared  at 
the  other  side.  After  a few  scrambling  efforts  to  rise.  Badger 
regained  his  legs,  and  stood  beside  me;  but  such  was  the  shock 
and  concussion  of  my  fall,  that  all  the  objects  around  me  seemed 
wavering  and  floating  before  me,  while  showers  of  bright  sparks 
fell  in  myriads  before  my  eyes.  I tried  to  rise,  but  fell  back 
helpless.  Cold  perspiration  broke  over  my  forehead,  and  I 
fainted.  From  tl^at  moment  1 can  remember  nothing,  till  I felt 
myself  galloping  along  at  full  speed  upon  a level  table-land,  with 
the  hounds  about  three  fields  in  advance,  Hammersly  riding  fore  - 
most, and  taking  all  his  leaps  coolly  as  ever.  As  I swayed  to 
either  side  upon  my  saddle,  from  weakness,  I was  lost  to  all 
thought  or  recollection,  save  a flickering  memory  of  some  plan  of 
vengeance  which  still  urged  me  forward.  The  chase  had  now 
lasted  above  an  hour,  and  both  hounds  and  horses  began  to  feel 
the  pace  they  were  going.  As  for  me,  I rode  mechanically;  I 
neither  knew  nor  cared  for  the  dangers  before  me.  My  eye 
rested  on  but  one  object;  my  whole  being  was  concentrated  upon 
one  vague  and  undetermined  sense  of  revenge.  At  this  instant 
the  huntsman  came  alongside  of  me. 

“ Are  you  hurted,  Misther  Charles?  did  you  fall — your  cheek 
is  all  blood,  and  your  coat  is  torn  in  two;  and.  Mother  o’  God  I 
his  boot  is  ground  to  powder;  he  does  not  hear  me.  Oh,  pull  up 
— pull,  for  the  love  of  the  Virgin;  there’^  the  clover  field,  and  the 
sunk  fence  before  you,  and  you’ll  be  killed  on  the  spot.” 

“Where?”  cried  I,  with  the  cry  of  a madman,  “ where’s  the 
clover  field? — where’s  the  sunk  fence?  Ha!  I see  it — I see  it 
now.” 

So  saying,  I dashed  the  rowels  into  my  horse’s  flanks,  and  in 
an  instant  was  beyond  the  reach  of  the  poor  fellow’s  remon- 
strances. Another  moment,  I was  beside  the  Captain.  He 
turned  round  as  I came  up;  the  same  smile  upon  his  mouth — I 
could  have  struck  him.  About  three  hundred  yards  before  us 
lay  the  sunk  fence;  its  breadth  was  about  twenty  feet,  and  a 
wall  of  close  brick- work  formed  its  face.  Over  this  the  hounds 
were  now  clambering;  some  succeeded  in  crossing,  but  by  far 
the  greater  number  fell  back  howling  into  the  ditch. 

I turned  toward  Hammersly.  He  was  standing  high  in  his 
stirrups,  and  as  he  looked  toward  the  yawning  fence,  down 
which  the  dogs  were  tumbling  in  masses,  I thought  (perhaps  it 
was  but  a thought),  that  his  cheek  was  paler.  I looked  again, 
he  was  pulling  at  his  horse;  ha!  it  was  true  then  he  would  not 
face  it.  I turned  round  in  my  saddle — looked  him  full  in  the 
face,  and,  as  I pointed  with  my  whip  to  the  leap,  called  out  with 
^ voice  hoarse  with  passion,  “ come  on.”  I saw  no  more.  All 


f 


20  CHARLES  CM  ALLEY. 

objects  were  lost  to  me  from  that  moment.  When  next  my 
senses  cleared  I was  standing  amid  the  dogs,  where  they  had 
just  killed.  Badger  stood  blown  and  trembhng  beside  me,  his 
head  drooping,  and  his  flanks  gored  with  spur-marks.  I looked 
about,  but  all  consciousness  of  the  past  had  fled;  the  concussion 
of  my  fall  had  shaken  my  intellect,  and  I was  like  one  but  half 
awake.  One  glimpse,  short  and  fleeting,  of  what  was  taking 
place,  shot  through  my  brain,  as  old  Brackely  whispered  to  me, 
“By  my  soul,  ye  did  for  the  Captain  there.”  I turned  a vague 
look  upon  him,  and  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  figure  of  a man  that 
lay  stretched  and  bleeding  upon  a door  before  me.  His  pale 
face  was  crossed  with  a purple  stream  of  blood,  that  trickled 
from  a wound  beside  his  eyebrow;  his  arms  lay  motionless  and 
heavy  at  either  side.  I knew  him  not.  A loud  report  of  a pistol 
aroused  me  from  my  stupor;  I looked  back.  I saw  a crowd 
that  broke  suddenly  asunder  and  fled  right  and  left.  I heard 
a heavy  crash  upon  the  ground;  I pointed  with  my  finger,  for  I 
could  not  utter  a word. 

“It  is  the  English  mare,  yer  honor;  she  was  a beauty  this 
morning,  but  she’s  broke  her  collar  bone,  and  both  her  legs,  and 
it  was  best  to  put  her  out  of  pain.” 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  DRAWING-ROOM. 

On  the  fourth  day  following  the  adventure  detailed  in  oiA: 
last  chapter,  I made  my  appearance  in  the  drawing-room;  my 
cheek  well  blanched  by  copious  bleeding,  and  my  steps  tottering 
and  uncertain.  On  entering  the  room  I looked  about  in  vain 
for  some  one  who  might  give  me  an  insight  into  the  occurreiKjes 
of  the  four  preceding  days,  but  no  one  was  to  be  met  with.  The 
ladies,  I learned,  were  out  riding;  Matthew  was  buying  a new 
setter;  Mr.  Blake  was  canvassing;  and  Captain  Hammerslywas 
in  bed.  Where  was  Miss  Dashwood?— in  her  room;  and  Sir 
George?  he  was  with  Mr.  Blake. 

“ What!  canvassing  too?” 

“Troth  that  same  was  possible,”  was  the  intelligent  reply  of 
the  old  butler,  at  which  I could  not  help  smiling.  I sat  down 
therefore,  in  the  easiest  chair  I could  find,  and  unfolding  the 
county  paper,  resolved  upon  learning  how  matters  were  going  on 
in  the  political  world.  But,  somehow,  whether  the  editor  was 
not  brilliant,  or  the  fire  was  hot,  or  that  my  own  dreams  were 
pleasanter  to  indulge  in  than  his  fancies,  I fell  sound  asleep. 

How  different  is  the  mind  attuned  to  the  active,  busy  world 
of  thought  and  action,  when  awakened  from  sleep  by  any  sud- 
den and  rude  summons  to  arise  and  be  stirring,  and  when  called 
into  existence  by  the  sweet  and  silvery  notes  of  softest  music, 
stealing  over  the  senses,  and  while  they  impart  awakening 
thoughts  of  bliss  and  beauty  scarcely  dissipating  the  dreary  in- 
fluence of  slumber!  Such  was  my  first  thought  as,  with  closed 
lids,  the  thrilling  chords  of  a harp  broke  upon  my  sleep,  and 
aroused  me  to  a feeling  of  unutterable  pleasure.  I turned  gently 
round  in  my  chair,  and  beheld  Miss  Dashwood.  She  was  seated 


OHABLES  O^M ALLEY. 


^1. 


in  a recess  of  an  old-fashioned  window;  the  pale  yellow  glow  of 
a wintry  sun  at  evening  fell  upon  her  beautiful  hair,  and  tinged 
it  with  such  a light  as  I have  often  since  then  seen  in  Rem- 
brandt’s pictures;  her  head  leaned  upon  the  harp,  and  as  she 
struck  its  chords  at  randonr , I saw  that  her  mind  was  far  away 
from  all  around  her;  as  I looked  she  suddenly  started  from  her 
leaning  attitude,  and  parting  back  her  curls  from  her  brow,  she 
preluded  a few  chords,  and  then  sighed  forth  rather  than  sang, 
that  most  beautiful  of  Moore’s  Melodies: 

“ She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps.’^ 

Never  before  had  such  pathos,  such  deep  utterance  of  feeling, 
met  my  astonished  sense;  I listened  breathlessly  as  the  tears  fell 
one  by  one  down  my  cheek;  my  bosom  heaved  and  fell;  and, 
when  she  ceased,  I hid  my  head  between  my  hands  and  sobbed 
aloud.  In  an  instant  she  was  beside  me,  and  placing  her  hand 
upon  my  shoulder,  said: 

‘ ‘ Poor  dear  boy,  I never  suspected  you  of  being  there,  or  I 
should  not  have  sung  that  mournful  air.” 

I started  and  looked  up,  and  from  wdiat  I know  not,  but  she 
suddenly  crimsoned  to  her  very  forehead,  while  she  added  in  a 
less  assured  tone: 

“ I hope,  Mr.  O’Malley,  that  you  are  much  better,  and  I trust 
there  is  no  imprudence  in  your  being  here.” 

“For  the  latter  I shall  not  answer,”  said  I,  with  a sickly 
smile;  “ but  already  I feel  your  music  has  done  me  service.” 

“ Then,  pray,  let  me  sing  more  for  you.” 

“If  I am  to  have  a choice,  I should  say,  sit  down  and  let  me 
hear  3'ou  talk  to  me;  my  illness  and  the  doctor  together  have 
made  wild  work  of  my  poor  brain,  but,  if  you  will,  talk  to  me.” 

“ Well,  then,  what  shall  it  be  about  ? Shall  I tell  you  a fairy 
tale?” 

“ I need  it  not;  I feel  I am  in  one  ibis  instant.” 

“ Well,  then,  what  say  you  to  a legend,  for  I am  rich  in  my 
stories  of  them?” 

“ The  O’Malleys  have  their  chronicles,  wild  and  barbarous 
enough,  without  the  aid  of  Thor  and  Woden.” 

, “Then  shall  we  chat  of  every-day  matters?  Should  you  like 
to  hear  how  the  election  and  the  canvass  goes  on  ?” 

“Yes;  of  all  things.” 

“ Well,  then,  most  favorably.  Two  baronies,  with  most  un- 
speakable names,  have  declared  for  us,  and  confidence  is  rapidly 
increasing  among  our  party.  This  I learned  by  chance  yesterday 
— for  papa  never  permits  us  to  know  anything  of  these  matters; 
not  even  the  names  of  the  candidates.” 

“ Well,  that  was  the  very  point  I was  coming  to,  for  the  gov- 
ernment was  about  to  send  down  some  one,  just  as  I left  home; 
and  I am  most  anxious  to  learn  who  it  is.” 

“ Then  I am  utterly  valueless;  for  I really  can’t  say  what  party 
the  government  espouses,  and  only  know  of  our  own.” 

“Quite  enough  for  me,  that  you  wish  it  success,”  said  I,  gal- 
lantly; “ perhaps  you  can  tell  me  if  my  uncle  has  heard  of  my 
accident  ?” 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


22 


Oh,  yes;  but  somehow  he  has  not  been  here  himself,  but 
sent  a friend,  a Mr.  Considine,  I think;  a very  strange  person  he 
seemed.  He  demanded  to  see  papa,  and,  it  seems,  asked  him  if 
your  misfortune  had  been  a thing  of  his  contrivance,  and  whether 
he  was  ready  to  explain  his  conduct  about  it;  and,  in  fact,  I be- 
lieve he  is  mad ” 

“ Heaven  confound  him,”  I muttered  between  my  teeth, 

“And  then  he  wished  to  have  an  interview  with  Captain 
Hammersly,  but  he  is  too  ill;  but  as  the  doctor  hoped  that  he 
might  be  down-stairs  in  a week,  Mr.  Considine  kindly  hinted 
that  he  should  wait.” 

“ Oh,  then,  do  tell  me  how  is  the  Captain  ?” 

“ Very  much  bruised,  very  much  disfigured,  they  say,”  said 
she,  half  smiling;  “but  not  so  much  hurt  in  the  body  as  in 
mind.” 

“ As  how,  may  I ask  ?”  said  I,  with  an  appearance  of  inno- 
cence. 

“ I don’t  exactly  understand  it;  but  it  would  appear  that  there 
was  something  like  rivalry  among  you  gentlemen  chasseurs  on 
that  luckless  morning,  and  that,  while  you  paid  the  penalty  of 
a broken  head,  he  was  only  destined  to  lose  his  horse,  and  break 
his  arm.” 

“ I certainly  am  sorr}^ — most  sincerely  sorry,  for  any  share  I 
might  have  had  in  the  catastrophe;  and  my  greatest  regret,  I 
confess,  arises  from  the  fact  that  I should  cause  you  unhappi- 
ness.” 

‘ ‘ Me — pray  explain  ?” 

“Why,  as  Captain  Hammersly ” 

“Mr.  O’Malley,  you  are  too  young  now  to  make  me  suspect 
you  have  an  intention  to  offend;  but  I caution  you,  never  repeat 
this.” 

I saw  that  I had  transgressed,  but  how,  I most  honestly  con- 
fess, I could  not  guess;  for  though  I certainly  was  the  senior  of 
my  fair  companion  in  years,  I was  most  lamentably  her  junior 
in  tact  and  discretion. 

The  gray  dusk  of  evening  had  long  fallen  as  we  continued  to 
chat  together  beside  the  blazing  wood  embers — she  evidently 
amusing  herself  with  the  original  notions  of  an  untutored,  un-' 
lettered  boy;  and  I drinking  deep  those  draughts  of  love  that 
nerved  my  heart  through  many  a breach  and  battle-field. 

Our  colloquy  was  at  length  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Sir 
George  who  shook  me  most  cordially  by  the  hand,  and  made  the 
most  kindest  inquiries  about  my  health. 

“ They  tell  me  you  are  to  be  a lawyer,  Mr.  O’Malley,”  said  he; 
“ and  if  so  I must  advise  you  taking  better  care  of  your  head- 
piece.” 

“A  lawyer,  papa!  Oh,  dear  me!  I should  never  have  thought 
of  his  being  anything  so  stupid,” 

“ Why,  silly  girl,  what  would  you  have  a man  be?” 

“A  dragoon,  to  be  sure,  papa,”  said  the  fond  girl,  as  she 
pressed  her  arm  around  his  manly  figure  and  looked  up  in  his 
face,  with  an  expression  of  mingled  pride  and  affection. 

That  word  sealed  my  destin}  . 


CHARLES  CMALLEY, 


23 


y 


CHAPTER  VIo 

THE  DINNER, 

When  I retired  to  my  room  to  dress  for  dinner  I found  my 
servant  waiting  with  a note  from  my  uncle,  to  which,  he  in- 
formed me,  the  messenger  expected  an  answer. 

I broke  the  seal  and  read:  ' 

“Dear  Charley, — Do  not  lose  a moment  in  securing  old 
Blake — if  you  have  not  already  done  so,  as  information  has  just 
reached  me  that  the  government  party  has  promised  a cornetcy  to 
young  Matthew,  if  he  can  bring  over  his  father.  And  these  are 
the  people  I have  been  voting  with — a few  private  cases  excepted 
— for  thirty  odd  years. 

“ I am  very  sorry  for  your  accident.  Considine  informs  me 
that  it  will  need  explanation  at  a later  period.  He  has  been  in 
Athlone  since  Tuesday  in  hopes  to  catch  the  new  candidate  on 
his  way  down,  and  get  him  into  a little  private  quarrel  before 
the  day;  if  he  succeeds,  it  will  save  the  county  much  expense  and 
conduce  greatly  to  the  peace  and  happiness  of  all  parties.  But 
‘ these  things,’  as  Father  Roach  says,  ‘ are  in  the  hands  of  Prov- 
idence.* You  must  also  persuade  old  Blake  to  write  a few  lines 
to  Simon  Mallock  about  the  Coolnamuck  mortgage.  We  can 
give  him  no  satisfaction  at  present,  at  least  such  as  he  looks  for, 
and  don’t  be  philandering  any  longer  where  you  are,  when  your 
health  permits  a change  of  quarters. 

“ Your  affectionate  uncle, 

“Godfrey  O’Malley. 

“P.  S.— Ihave  just  heard  from  Considine;  he  was  out  this 
morning  and  shot  a fellow  in  the  knee,  but  finds  that  after  all 
he  was  not  the  candidate,  but  a tourist  that  was  writing  a book 
about  Connemara. 

“ P.  S.  No.  2. — Bear  the  mortgage  in  mind,  for  old  Mallock  is 
a spite  ful  fellow  and  has  a grudge  against  me,  since  I horse- 
whipped his  son  in  Bannagher.  Oh,  the  world,  the  world. — G. 
O’Mo” 

Until  I had  read  this  very  clear  epistle  to  the  end,  I had  no 
very  precise  conception  how  completely  I had  forgotten  all  my 
uncle’s  interests  and  neglected  all  his  injunctions.  Already  five 
days  had  elapsed,  and  I had  not  as  much  as  mooted  the  question 
to  Mr.  Blake,  and  probably  all  this  time  my  uncle  was  calculat- 
ing on  the  thing  as  concluded;  but,  with  one  hole  in  my  head, 
and  some  half  dozen  in  my  heart,  my  memory  was  none  of  the 
best. 

Snatching  up  the  letter,  therefore,  I resolved  to  lose  no  more 
time;  and  proceeded  at  once  to  Mr.  Blake’s  room,  expecting  that 
I should,  as  the  event  proved,  find  him  engaged  in  the  very 
laborious  duty  of  making  his  toilet. 

“Come  in,  Charley,”  said  he,  as  I tapped  gently  at  the  door; 
“ it’s  only  Charley,  my  darling;  Mrs.  B,  won’t  mind  you.” 

“Not  the  least  in  life,”  responded  Mrs.  B.,  disposing,  at  the 
same  time,  a pair  of  her  husband’s  corduroys,  tippet  fashion. 


24 


CHARLES  HMALLEYo 


across  her  ample  shoulders,  which,  before,  were  displayed  in  the 
plenitude  and  breadth  of  coloring  we  find  in  a RubenSc  “Sit 
down,  Charley,  and  tell  us  what’s  the  matter.” 

As,  until  this  moment,  I was  in  perfect  ignorance  of  the  Adam 
and  Eve-like  simplicity  in  which  the  private  economy  of  Mr. 
Blake’s  household  was  conducted,  I would  have  gladly  retired 
from  what  I found  to  be  a mutual  dressing-room,  had  not  Mr. 
Blake’s  injunction  been  issued  somewhat  like  an  order  to  re- 
main. 

“ It’s  only  a letter,  sir,”  said  I,  stuttering,  “ from  my  uncle, 
about  the  election.  He  says  that,  as  his  majority  is  now  cer- 
tain, he  should  feel  better  pleased  in  going  to  the  poU  with  all 
the  family,  you  know,  sir,  along  with  him.  He  wishes  me  just 
to  sound  your  intentions— to  make  out  how  you  feel  disposed 
toward  him;  and — and,  faith,  as  I am  but  a poor  diplomatist,  I 
thought  the  best  way  was  to  come  straight  to  the  point  and  tell 
you  so.” 

“ I perceive,”  said  Mr.  Blake,  giving  his  chin,  at  the  moment, 
an  awful  gash  with  the  razor,  “ I perceive;  go  on.” 

“ Well,  sir,  I have  little  more  to  say;  my  uncle  knows  what 
influence  you  have  in  Scariff,  and  expects  you’ll  do  what  you  can 
there.” 

“ Anything  more  ?”  said  Blake,  with  a very  dry  and  quizzical 
expression  1 didn’t  half  like,  “ anything  more?” 

“ Oh,  yes,  you  are  to  write  a line  to  old  Mallock.” 

“I  understand;  about  Coolnamuck,  isn’t  it?” 

“ Exactly;  I believe  that’s  all.” 

“Well  now,  Charley,  you  may  go  down-stairs,  and  we’ll  talk 
it  over  after  dinner.” 

• ‘ Yes,  Charley,  dear,  go  down,  for  I’m  going  to  draw  on  my 
stocking,”  said  the  fair  Mrs.  Blake,  with  a look  of  very  modest 
consciousness. 

When  I liad  left  the  room  I couldn’t  help  muttering  a “ thank 
God,”  for  the  success  of  a mission  I more  than  once  feared  for, 
and  hastened  to  dispatch  a note  to  my  uncle,  assuring  him  of 
the  Blake  interest,  and  adding  that,  for  propriety  sake,  I should 
defer  my  departure  for  a day  or  two  longer. 

This  done,  with  a heart  lightened  of  its  load,  and  in  high  spir-= 
its  at  my  cleverness,  I descended  to  the  drawing-room.  Here  a 
very  large  party  was  already  assembled,  and,  at  every  opening 
of  the  door,  a new  relay  of  Blakes,  Burkes,  and  Bodkins,  was 
introduced.  In  the  absence  of  the  host.  Sir  George  Dashwood 
was  “making  the  agreeable”  to  the  guests,  and  shook  hands 
with  every  new  arrival,  with  all  the  warmth  and  cordiality  of 
old  friendship.  While  thus  he  inquired  for  various  absent  mdi- 
viduals,  and  asked,  most  affectionately,  for  sundry  aunts  and 
uncles,  not  forthcoming,  a slight  incident  occurred,  which,  by 
its  ludicrous  turn,  served  to  shorten  the  long  half  hour  before 
dinner.  An  individual  of  the  party,  a Mr.  Blake,  had,  from  cer- 
tain peculiarities  of  face,  obtained,  in  his  boyhood,  the  soubri- 
quet of  “shave  the  wind.”  This  hatchet-like  conformation  had 

frown  with  his  growth,  and  perpetuated  upon  him  a nick-name, 
y which  alone  was  he  ever  spoken  of  among  his  friends  and 


CHARLES  OAIALLEY. 


25 


acquaintances;  the  only  difference  being  that,  as  he  came  to 
man’s  estate,  brevity,  that  soul  of  wit,  had  curtailed  the  epithet 
to  mere  “ shave.”  Now,  Sir  George  had  been  hearing  frequent 
references  made  to  him,  always  by  this  name,  heard  him  ever 
so  addressed,  and  perceived  him  to  reply  to  it;  so  that  when  he 
was  himself  asked  by  some  one,  what  sport  he  had  found  that 
day  among  the  woodcocks,  he  answered  at  once,  with  a bow  of 
very  grateful  acknowledgment:  “ Excellent,  indeed;  but  entire- 
ly owing  to  where  I was  placed  in  the  copse;  had  it  not  been  for 
Mr.  Shave,  there ” 

I need  not  say  that  the  remainder  of  his  speech,  being  hear^ 
on  all  sides,  became  one  universal  shout  of  laughter,  in  which 
to  do  hin#  justice,  the  excellent  Shave  himself  heartily  joined' 
Scarcely  were  the  sounds  of  mirth  lulled  into  an  apparent  calm^ 
when  the  door  opened,  and  the  host  and  hostess  appeared.  MrSc 
Blake  advanced  in  all  the  plenitude  of  her  charms,  arrayed  in 
crimson  satin,  sorely  injured  in  its  freshness  by  a patch  of  grease 
upon  the  front,  about  the  same  size  and  shape  as  the  Continent 
of  Europe,  in  Arrowsmith’s  Atlas;  a swansdown  tippet  covered 
her  shoulders;  massive  bracelets  ornamented  her  wrists;  while 
from  her  ears  descended  two  Irish  diamond  earrings,  rivaling  in 
magnitude  and  value  the  glass  pendants  of  a luster.  Her  recep- 
tion of  her  guests  made  ample  amends,  in  warmth  and  cordiality, 
for  any  deficiency  of  elegance,  and,  as  she  disposed  her  ample 
proportions  upon  the  sofa,  and  looked  around  upon  the  company 
she  appeared  the  very  impersonation  of  hospitality. 

After  several  openings  and  shuttings  of  the  drawing-room 
door,  accompanied  by  the  appearance  of  old  Simon  the  Butler, 
who  counted  the  party  at  least  five  times  before  he  was  certain 
that  the  score  was  correct,  dinner  was  at  length  announced. 
Now  came  a moment  of  difficulty,  and  one  which,  as  testing  Mr. 
Blake’s  tact,  he  would  gladly  have  seen  devolve  upon  some  other 
shoulders;  for  he  well  knew  that  the  marshaling  a room  full  of 
mandarins,  blue,  green,  and  yellow,  was  “cakes  and  ginger- 
bread ” to  ushering  a Galway  party  in  to  dinner.  First  then  was 
Mr.  Miles  Bodkin,  whose  grandfather  would  have  been  a lord  if 
Cromwell  bad  not  hanged  him  one  fine  morning.  Then  Mrs, 
Mosey  Blake’s  first  husband  was  promised  the  title  of  Kilma- 
cud  if  it  was  ever  restored,  whereas  Mrs.  French  of  Knocktum- 
nors  mother  was  then  at  law  for  a title;  and  lastly,  Mrs.  Joe 
Burke  was  fourth  cousin  to  Lord  Clanricarde,  as  is  or  will  be 
every  Burke  from  this  to  the  day  of  judgment.  Now,  luckily 
for  her  prospects,  the  lord  was  alive;  and  Mr.  Blake,  remember- 
ing a very  sage  adage,  about  “ dead  lions,”  etc.,  solved  the  diffi- 
culty at  once,  by  gracefully  tucking  the  lady  under  his  arm, 
and  leading  the  way;  the  others  soon  followed;  the  priest  of 
Portumna  and  my  unworthy  self  bringing  up  the  rear. 

When,  many  a year  afterward,  the  hard  ground  of  a mount- 
ain bivouac,  with  its  pitiful  portion  of  pickled  cork-tree,  yclept 
mess-beef,  and  that  pyroligneous  aquafortis  they  call  corn 
brandy,  have  been  my  hard  fare,  I often  look  back  to  that  day’s 
dinner  with  a most  heart- yearning  sensation — a turbot  as  big  as 
the  Waterloo  shield;  a sirloin  that  seemed  cut  from  the  sides  of 


26 


qilARLES  O'MALLET, 

a rhinoceros;  a sance-boat  that  contained  an  oyster  bed.  There 
was  a turkey  which  singly  would  have  formed  the  main  army 
of  a French  dinner,  doing  mere  outpost  duty — flanked  by  apickuet 
of  ham,  and  a detached  squadron  of  chickens  carefully  am- 
bushed in  a forest  of  greecs;  potatoes  not  disguised  a la  maitfe 

hotel  and  tortured  to  resemble  bad  macaroni,  but  piled  like 
shot  in  an  ordnance  yard,  were  posted  at  different  quarters; 
while  massive  decanters  of  port  and  sherry  s-tood  proudly  up 
like  standard  bearers  amid  the  goodly  array.  This  was  none  of 
your  austere  “ great  dinners, where  a cold  and  chiUmg  plateau 
of  artificial  nonsense  cuts  off  one  half  of  the  table  from  inter« 
course  with  the  other;  when  whispered  sentences  constitute  a 
conversation,  and  all  the  friendly  recognition  of  wine-ftrinking, 
which  renews  acquaintance  and  cements  an  intimacy,  is  re- 
placed by  the  ceremonious  filling  of  your  glass  by  a lackey — 
where  smiles  go  current  in  lieu  of  kind  speeches,  and  epigram 
and  smartness  form  the  substitute  for  the  broad  jest  and  merry 
story.  Far  from  it;  here  the  company  ate,  drank,  talked, 
laughed,  did  all  but  sing,  and  certainly  enjoyed  themselves 
heartily.  As  for  me,  I was  little  more  than  a listener,  and  such 
was  the  crash  of  plates,  the  jingle  of  glasses,  and  the  clatter  of 
voices,  that  fragments  only  of  what  was  passing  around  reached 
me;  giving  to  the  conversation  of  the  party  a character  occa- 
sionally somewhat  incongruous.  Thus,  such  sentences  as  the 
following  ran  foul  of  each  other  every  instant: 

“No  better  land  in  Galway” — “ where  could  you  find  such 
facilities” — “for  shooting  Mr.  Jones  on  his  way  home” — “the 
truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth  ” — “ kiss  ” — 
“Miss  Blake,  she’s  the  girl  with  foot  and  ankle Daly  has 
never  had  wool  on  his  sheep” — “ how  could  he” — “what  does 
he  pay  for  the  mountain  ” — “ four  and  ten  pence  a yard  ” — “ not 
a penny  less  ” — “ all  the  cabbage  stalks  and  potato  skins,  with 
some  bog  stuff  through  it” — “that’s  the  thing  to” — “make 
soup,  with  a red  herring  in  it  instead  of  salt” — “and  when  he 
proposed  for  my  niece,  ma’am,  says  he  ” — ‘ ^ mix  a strong  tumblerj 
and  I’ll  make  a shake-down  for  you  on  the  floor” — “and  may 
the  Lord  have  mercy  on  your  soul” — “ and  now,  down  the  mid- 
dle and  up  again  ” — “ Captain  Mangan,  my  dear,  he  is  the  man  ” 
— “to  shave  a pig  properly” — “it’s  not  money  I’m  looking 
for,  says  he,  the  girl  of  my  heart  — “ if  she  had  not  a wind  gall 
and  two  spavins” — “ I’d  had  given  her  the  rights  of  the  church, 
of  course,”  said  Father  Eoach,  bringing  up  the  rear  of  this  ill- 
assorted  jargon. 

Such  were  the  scattered  links  of  conversation  I was  condemned 
to  listen  to,  till  a general  rise  on  the  part  of  the  ladies  left  us 
alone  to  discuss  our  wine,  and  enter  in  good  earnest  upon  the 
more  serious  duties  of  the  evening. 

Scarcely  was  the  door  closed,  when  one  of  the  company,  seiz- 
ing the  bell-rope,  said:  “ With  your  leave,  Blake,  we'll  have  the 
^ dew  ’ now. 

“Good  claret — no  better,”  said  another,  “but  it  sits  mighty 
cold  on  the  stomach.” 

“There's  nothing  like  the  groceries,  a,fterall — eh,  Sir  George?” 


CHARLES  aMALLEY.  2T 

said  an  old  Galway  squire,  to  the  English  general,  who  acceded 
to  the  fact,  which  he  understood  in  a very  different  sense. 

“ Oh,  punch,  you  are  my  darlin’,’’  hummed  another,  as  a 
large  square  half-gallon  decanter  of  whisky  was  placed  on  the 
table^the  various  decanters  of  wine  being  now  ignominiously 
sent  down  to  the  end  of  the  board,  without  any  evidence  of 
regret  on  any  face,  save  Sir  George  Dashwood’s,  who  mixed  his 
tumbler  with  a very  rebellious  conscience. 

Whatever  were  the  noise  and  clamor  of  the  company  be- 
fore, they  were  nothing  to  what  now  ensued.  As  one  party 
was  discussing  the  approaching  contest,  another  was  plan- 
ning a steeple-chase,  while  two  individuals,  unhappily  removed 
from  each  other  the  entire  length  of  the  table,  were  what  is 
called  “ challenging  each  others  effects,”  in  a very  remarable 
manner,  the  process  so  styled  being  an  exchange  of  property, 
when  each  party  setting  an  imaginary  value  upon  some  article, 
barters  it  for  another,  the  amount  of  boot  paid  and  received 
being  determined  by  a third  person,  who  is  the  umpire.  Thus  a 
gold  breast-pin  was  swopped,  as  the  phrase  is,  against  a horse; 
then  a pair  of  boots,  then  a Kerry  bull,  etc.,  every  imaginable 
species  of  property  coming  into  the  market.  Sometimes,  as 
matters  of  very  dubious  value  turned  up,  great  laughter  was 
the  result.  In  this  very  national  pastime  a Mr.  Miles  Bodkin, 
a noted  fire  eater  of  the  west,  was  a great  proficient,  and.  it  is 
said,  once  so  completely  succeeded  in  despoiling  an  uninitiated 
hand,  that  after  winning  in  succession  his  horse,  gig,  harness, 
etc.,  he  proceeded  seriatim  to  his  watch,  ring,  clothes  and 
actually  concluded  by  winning  all  he  possessed,  and  kindly 
lent  him  a card  cloth  to  cover  him  on  his  way  to  the  hotel. 
His  success  on  the  present  occasion  was  considerable,  and  his 
spirits  proportionate.  The  decanter  had  thrice  been  replenished, 
and  the  flushed  faces  and  thickened  utterances  of  the  guests 
evinced  that  from  the  cold  properties  of  the  claret  there  was 
little  to  dread.  As  for  Mr.  Bodkin,  his  manner  was  incapable 
of  any  higher  flight,  when  under  the  influence  of  whisky, 
from  what  is  evinced  on  common  occasions;  and,  as  he  sat  at 
the  end  of  the  table,  fronting  Mr.  Blake,  he  assumed  all  the 
dignity  of  the  ruler  of  the  feast,  with  an  energy  no  one  seemed 
disposed  to  question.  In  answer  to  some  observation  of  Sir 
George,  he  was  led  into  something  like  an  oration  upon  the  pe- 
culiar excellencies  of  his  native  county,  which  ended  in  a de- 
claration that  there  was  nothing  like  Galway. 

“ Why  don’t  you  give  us  a song.  Miles?  and  maybe  the  Gen- 
eral would  learn  more  from  it  than  all  your  speech-making.” 

“ To  be  sure,”  cried  out  several  voices  together;  “to  be  sure. 
Let  us  hear  the  ‘ Man  from  Galway.’  ” 

Sir  George  having  joined  most  warmly  in  the  request,  Mr. 
Bodkin  filled  up  his  glass  to  the  brim,  bespoke  a chorus  to  his 
chant,  and,  clearing  his  voice  with  a deep  hem,  began  the  fol- 
lowing ditty,  to  the  air  which  Moore  has  since  rendered  im- 
mortal by  the  beautiful  song,  “Wreath  the  bowl,”  etc.  And 
although  the  words  are  well-known  in  the  west,  for  the  in* 
formation  of  less  favored  regions,  I here  transcribe 


^ CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 

“THE  MAN  FOR  GALWAY 

'•  To  drink  a toast, 

A proctor  roast, 

Or  bailiff,  as  the  case  is; 

To  kiss  your  wife. 

Or  take  your  life, 

At  ten  or  fifteen  paces; 

To  keep  game  cocks — to  hunt  the  fox, 

To  drink  in  punch  the  Solway, 

With  debts  galore,  but  fun  far  more; 

Oh,  ‘ that’s  the  man  for  Galway.’ 

“ Chorus, — With  debts,  &c. 

The  king  of  Oude 
Is  mighty  proud, 

And  so  were  onst  the  (Cassars), 

But  ould  Gyles  Eyre 
Would  make  them  stare, 

Av,  he  had  them  with  the  Blazers. 

To  the  devil  I fling  old  Rungeet  Sing — 

He’s  only  a Prince  in  a small  way. 

And  knows  nothing  at  all  of  a six-foot  wall; 

Oh,  he’d  never  ‘ do  for  Galway.’ 

Ye  think  the  Blakes 
Are  no  ‘ great  shakes;’ 

They’re  all  his  blood  relations, 

And  the  Bodkins  sneeze 
At  the  grim  Chinese, 

For  they  come  from  the  Fhenaycians; 

So  fill  to  the  brim,  and  here’s  to  him 
Who’d  drink  in  punch  the  Solway, 

With  debts  galore,  but  fun  far  more; 

Oh  I that’s  ‘the  man  for  Galway.’ 

“ Chorus— With  debts,  &c.” 

I much  fear  that  the  reception  of  this  very  classic  ode  would 
not  be  as  favorable  in  general  companies  as  it  was  on  the  occa- 
sion I first  heard  it;  for  certainly  the  applause  was  almost 
deafening;  and  even  Sir  George,  the  defects  of  whose  English 
education  left  some  of  the  allusions  out  of  his  reach,  was  highly 
amused  and  laughed  heartily. 

The  conversation  once  more  reverted  to  the  election,  and  al- 
though I was  too  far  from  those  who  seemed  best  informed  on 
the  matter  to  hear  much,  I could  catch  enough  to  discover  that 
the  feeling  was  a confident  one.  This  was  gratifying  to  me,  as 
I had  some  scruples  about  my  so  long  neglecting  my  good  uncle's 
cause. 

“ We  have  Scariff  to  a man,'’  said  Bodkin. 

“And  Mosey’s  tenantry,'’  said  another;  “I  swear  that  though 
there’s  not  a freehold  registered  on  the  estate,  that  they'll  vote, 
every  mother’s  son  of  them,  or  devil  a stone  of  the  court-house 
they’ll  leave  standing  on  another.” 

“And  may  the  Lord  look  to  the  Returning  Officer,”  said  a 
third,  throwing  up  his  eyes. 

“ Mosey’s  tenantry  are  droll  boys,  and,  like  their  landlord, 
more  by  token-— tln^y  never  pay  any  rent.” 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


29 


And  what  for  shouldn’t  they  vote?”  said  a dry-looking  little 
old  fellow  in  a red  waistcoat;  “ when  I was  the  dead  agent ” 

“ The  dead  agent,”  interrupted  Sir  George  with  a start. 

“ Just  so,”  said  the  old  fellow,  pulling  down  his  spectacles 
from  his  forehead,  and  casting  a half-angry  look  at  Sir  George, 
for  what  he  had  suspected  to  be  a doubt  of  his  veracity. 

“ The  General  does  not  know,  maybe,  what  that  is,”‘^said  some 
one. 

“ You  have  just  anticipated  me,”  said  Sir  George;  I really  am 
in  most  profound  ignorance.” 

“It  is  the  dead  agent,”  says  Mr.  Blake,  “who  also  provides 
substitutes  for  any  voters  that  may  have  died  since  the  last  elec- 
tion. A very  important  fact  in  statistics  may  thus  be  gathered 
from  the  poll-books  of  this  county,  w^hich  proves  it  to  be  the 
healthiest  part  of  Europe — a freeholder  has  not  died  in  it  for  the 
last  fifty  years.” 

“ The  ’Kiltopher  boys  won’t  come  this  time — they  say  there’s 
no  use  trying  to  vote,  when  so  many  were  transported  last  as- 
sizes for  perjury.” 

“ They’re  poor-spirited  creatures,”  said  another. 

“ Not  they — they  are  as  decent  boys  as  any  we  have — they’re 
willing  to  wreck  the  town  for  fifty  shillings’  worth  of  spirits; 
besides,  if  they  don’t  vote  for  the  county,  they  will  for  the 
borough.” 

This  declaration  seemed  to  restore  these  interesting  individuals 
to  favor,  and  now  all  attention  was  turned  toward  Bodkin,  who 
was  detailing  the  plan  of  a grand  attack  upon  the  polling-booths, 
to  be  headed  by  himself.  By  this  time  all  the  prudence  and 
guardedness  of  the  party  had  given  way — whisky  was  in  the  as- 
cendant, and  every  bold  stroke  of  election  policy,  even  cunning 
artifice,  every  ingenious  device,  was  detailed  and  applauded  in  a 
manner  which  proved  that  self-respect  was  not  the  inevitable 
gift  of  mountain  dew. 

The  mirth  and  fun  grew  momentarily  more  boisterous,  and 
Miles  Bodkin,  who  had  twice  before  been  prevented  proposing 
some  toast,  by  a telegraphic  signal  from  the  other  end  of  the  ta- 
ble, now  swore  that  nothing  should  prevent  him  any  longer,  and 
rising  with  a smoking  tumbler  in  his  hand,  delivered  himself  as 
follows: 

“ No,  no,  Phil,  Blake,  ye  needn’t  be  winkin’  at  me  that  way — 
it’s  little  I care  for  the  spawn  of  the  ould  serpent.”  [Here  great 
cheers  greeted  the  speaker,  in  w^hich,  without  well  knowing  why, 
I heartily  joined].  “ I^m  going  to  give  you  a toast,  boys — areal 
good  toast — none  of  your  sentimental  things  about  wall-fiowers, 
or  the  vernal  equinox,  or  that  kind  of  thing,  but  a sensible,  pa- 
triotic, manly,  intrepid  toast;  a toast  you  must  drink  in  the  most 
universal,  laborious,  and  awful  manner — do  ye  see,  now  ?” 
(Loud  cheers.)  “ If  any  man  of  you  here  present  doesn’t  drain 
this  toast  to  the  bottom  ” — [here  the  speaker  looked  fixedly  at  me, 
as  did  the  rest  of  the  company,]  “ then,  by  the  great  gun  of  Ath- 
lone.  I’ll  make  him  eat  the  decanter,  glass,  stopper,  and  all  for 
the  good  of  his  digestion — d’ye  see  now.” 

The  cheering  at  this  mild  determination  prevented  my  hearing 


80 


CHARLES  a 31  ALLEY. 


what  followed:  but  the  peroration  consisted  in  a very  glowing 
eulogy  upon  some  person  unknown,  and  a speedy  return  to  him 
as  member  for  Galway*  Amid  all  the  noise  and  tumult  at  this 
critical  moment,  nearly  every  eye  at  the  table  was  turned  upon 
me,  and,  as  I concluded  that  they  had  been  drinking  my  uncle’s 
health,  I thundered  away  at  the  mahogany  with  all  my  energy. 
At  length,  the  hip,  hipping,  over,  and  comparative  quiet  restored, 
I rose  from  my  seat  to  return  thanks— but,  strange  enough, 
Sir  George  Dashwood  did  so  likewise,  and  there  we  both  stood 
amid  an  uproar  that  might  well  have  shaken  the  courage  of 
more  practiced  orators;  while  from  every  side  came  cries  of 
•‘here,  here” — “go  on  Sir  George” — “speak  out,  General” — 
“sit  do  wn,^  Charley” — “confound  the  boy” — “knock  the  legs 
from  under  him,”  etc.  Not  understanding  why  Sir  George 
should  interfere  with  what  I regarded  as  my  peculiar  duty , I re- 
solved not  to  give  way,  and  avowed  this  determination  in  no 
very  equivocal  terms.  “ In  that  case,”  said  the  General,  “ I am 
to  suppose  that  the  young  gentleman  moves  an  amendment  to 
your  proposition,  and  as  the  etiquette  is  in  his  favor,  I yield.” 
Here  he  resumed  his  place,  amid  a most  terrific  scene  of  noise 
and  tumult,  while  several  humane  proposals,  as  to  my  treatment, 
were  made  around  me,  and  a kind  suggestion,  thrown  out  to 
break  my  neck,  by  a near  neighbor.  Mr.  Blake  at  length  pre- 
vailed upon  the  party  to  hear  what  I had  to  say — for  he  was  cer- 
tain I should  not  detain  them  above  a minute.  The  commotion 
having  in  some  measure  subsided,  I began:  “ Gentlemen,  as  the 
adopted  son  of  the  worthy  man  whose  health  you  have  just 

drunk ” Heaven  knows  how  I should  have  continued — but 

here  my  eloquence  was  met  by  such  a roar  of  laughing  as  I 
never  before  listened  to;  from  one  end  of  the  board  to  the  other 
it  was  one  continual  shout,  and  went  on  too  as  if  all  the  spare 
lungs  of  the  party  had  been  kept  in  reserve  for  the  occasion.  I 
turned  from  one  to  the  other — I tried  to  smile,  and  seemed 
to  participate  in  the  joke,  but  failed — I frowned — I looked  sav- 
agely about  where  I could  see  enough  to  turn  my  wrath  thither- 
ward; and,  as  it  chanced,  not  in  vain;  for  Mr.  Miles  Bodkin, 
with  an  intuitive  perception  of  my  wishes,  most  suddenly  ceased 
his  mirth,  and  assuming  a look  of  frowning  defiance  that  had 
done  him  good  service  upon  many  former  occasions,  rose  and 
said: 

“Well,  sir,  I hope  you’re  proud  of  yourself — you’ve  made  a 
nice  beginning  of  it,  and  a pretty  story  you’ll  have  for  your 
uncle.  But  if  you’d  like  to  break  the  news  by  a letter,  the  Gen- 
eral will  have  great  pleasure  in  franking  it  for  you,;  for  by  the 
rock  of  Cashel,  we’ll  carry  him  in  against  all  the  O’Malleys  that 
ever  cheated  the  sheriff.” 

Scarcely  were  the  words  uttered,  when  I seized  my  wine-glass, 
and  hurled  it  with  all  my  force  at  his  head;  so  sudden  was  the 
act,  and  so  true  the  aim,  that  Mr.  Bodkhi  measured  his  length 
upon  the  floor  ere  his  friends  could  appreciate  his  late  eloquent 
effusion.  The  scene  now  became  terrific;  for  though  the  re- 
doubted Miles  was  hoi's  de  combat,  his  friends  made  a tremendous 
rush  at,  and  would  infallibly  have  succeeded  in  capturing  me, 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


31 


liad  not  Blake  and  four  or  five  others  interposed.  Amid  a 
desperate  struggle  which  lasted  for  some  minutes,  I was  torn 
from  the  spot,  carried  bodily  up-stairs,  and  pitched  headlong  in« 
to  my  own  room,  where,  having  doubly  locked  the  door  on  the 
outside,  they  left  me  to  my  own  cool  and  not  over  agreeable 
^reflections. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  FLIGHT  FROM  GUETNAMOPRA, 

It  was  by  one  of  those  sudden  and  inexplicable  revulsions 
which  occasionally  restore  to  sense  and  intellect  the  maniac  of 
years  standing,  that  I was  no  sooner  left  alone  in  my  chamber, 
than  I became  perfectly  sober.  The  fumes  of  the  wine — and  I 
had  drunk  deeply — were  dissipated  at  once;  my  head,  which  but 
a moment  before  was  half  wild  with  excitement,  was  now  cool, 
calm,  and  collected ; and,  stranger  than  all,  I,  who  had  only  an 
hour  since  entered  the  dining-room  with  all  the  unsuspecting 
freshness  of  boyhood,  became,  by  a mighty  bound  a man — a 
man  in  all  my  feelings  of  responsibility , a man  who,  repelling 
an  insult  by  an  outrage,  had  resolved  to  stake  his  life  upon  the 
chance.  In  an  instant  a new  era  of  life  had  opened  before  me 
—the  light-headed  gayety  which  fearlessness  and  youth  impart 
was  replaced  by  one  absorbing  thought — one  all-engrossing,  all- 
pervading  impression,  that  if  I did  not  follow  up  my  quarrel 
with  Bodkin,  I was  dishonored  and  disgraced;  my  little  knowl- 
edge of  such  matters  not  being  sufficient  to  assure  me  that  I was 
now  the  aggressor,  and  that  any  further  steps  in  the  affair  should 
come  from  his  side. 

So  thoroughly  did  my  own  griefs  occupy  me  that  I had  no 
thought  for  the  disappointment  my  poor  uncle  was  destined  to 
meet  with  in  hearing  that  the  Blake  interest  was  lost  to  him,  and 
the  former  breach  between  the  families  irreparably  widened  by 
the  events  of  the  evening.  Escape  was  my  first  thought;  but  how 
to  accomplish  it  ? — the  door,  a solid  one  of  Irish  oak,  doubly  locked 
and  bolted,  defied  all  my  efforts  to  break  it  open — the  window 
was  at  least  five-and-twenty  feet  from  the  ground,  and  not  a tree 
near  to  swing  into.  I shouted,  I called  aloud,  I opened  the 
sash,  and  tried  if  any  one  outside  were  witliin  hearing,  but  in 
vain.  Weary  and  exhausted,  I sat  down  upon  my  bed  and 
ruminated  over  my  fortunes.  Vengeance,  quick,  entire,  decisive 
vengeance  I thirsted  and  panted  for;  and  every  moment  I lived 
under  the  insult  inflicted  on  mo  seemed  an  age  of  torturing 
and  maddening  agony.  I rose  with  a leap,  a thought  had  just 
occurred  to  me.  I drew  the  bed  toward  the  wundow,  and 
fastening  the  sheet  to  one  of  the  posts  with  a firm  knot,  I 
twisted  it  into  a rope,  and  let  myself  down  to  within  about 
twelve  feet  of  the  ground,  when.  I let  go  my  hold  and  dropped 
upon  the  grass  beneath,  safe  and  uninjured;  a thin  misty  rain 
was  falling,  and  I now  perceived  for  the  first  time,  that  in  my 
haste  I had  forgotten  my  hat;  this  thought,  however,  gave  me 
little  uneasiness,  and  I took  mv  way  toward  the  stable,  resolv- 


39 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


ing,  if  I could,  to  saddle  my  horse  and  get  off  before  any 
intimation  of  my  escape  reached  the  family. 

When  I gained  the  yard,  all  was  quiet  and  deserted;  the  serv- 
ants were  doubtless  enjoying  themselves  below  stairs;  and  I 
met  no  one  in  the  way.  I entered  the  stable,  thi’ew  the  saddle 
upon  Badger,”  and.  before  five  minutes  from  my  descent  from 
the  window,  was  galloping  toward  O'Malley  Castle  at  a pace 
that  defied  pursuit,  had  any  one  thought  of  it. 

It  was  about  five  o’clock  on  a dark,  wintry  morning,  as  I led 
my  horse  through  the  well-known  defiles  of  out-houses  and  sta- 
bles which  formed  the  long  line  of  offices  to  my  uncle’s  house. 
As  yet  no  one  was  stirring,  and  as  I wished  to  have  my  arrival  a 
secret  from  the  family,  after  providing  for  the  wants  of  my  gal- 
lant gray,  I lifted  the  latch  of  the  kitchen  door,  no  other  fasten- 
ing being  ever  thought  necessary,  even  at  night,  and  gently 
groped  my  way  toward  the  stairs;  all  was  perfectly  still,  and  the 
silence  now  recalled  me  to  refiection  as  to  what  course  I should 
pursue.  It  was  all-important  that  my  uncle  should  know  noth- 
ing of  my  quarrel,  otherwise  he  would  inevitably  make  it  his 
own,  and,  by  treating  me  like  a boy  in  the  matter,  give  the  whole 
affair  the  very  turn  I most  dreaded.  Then,  as  to  Sir  Harry 
Boyle,  he  would  most  certainly  turn  the  whole  thing  into  ridi- 
cule, make  a good  story,  perhaps  a song,  out  of  it,  and  laugh  at 
my  notion  of  demanding  satisfaction.  Considine,  I knew,  was 
my  man;  but  then,  he  was  at  Athlone — at  least  so  my  uncle’s 
letter  mentioned;  perhaps  he  might  have  returned;  if  not,  ta 
Athlone  I should  set  off  at  once.  So  resolving,  I stole  noiselessly 
up-stairs,  and  reached  the  door  of  the  Count’s  chamber;  I opened 
it  gently  and  entered,  and,  though  my  step  was  almost  imper- 
ceptible to  myself,  it  was  quite  sufficient  to  alarm  the  watchful 
occupant  of  the  room,  who,  springing  up  in  his  bed,  demanded 
gruffly.  “ Who’s  there?” 

‘‘Charles,  sir,”  said  I,  shutting  the  door  carefully,  and  ap- 
proaching his  bedside.  “ Charles  O’Malley,  sir.  I come  to  have 
a bit  of  your  advice;  and,  as  the  affair  won’t  keep,  I hav*e  been 
obliged  to  disturb  you.” 

“Never  mind,  Charley,”  said  the  Count;  “sit  down.  There’s 
a chair  somewhere  near  the  bed — have  you  found  it?  There — 
well  now,  what  is  it  ? What  news  of  Blake?” 

“ Very  bad,  no  worse;  but  it  is  not  exactly  that  1 came  about; 
I’ve  got  into  a scrape,  sir.” 

‘'^Eun  off  with  one  of  the  daughters,”  said  Considine.  “By 
jingo,  I knew  what  those  affable  devils  would  be  after.” 

“ Not  so  bad  as  that,”  said  I,  laughing;  “ it’s  just  a row,  a kind 
of  squabble,  something  that  must  come ” 

“Ay,  ay,”  said  the  Count,  brightening  up,  “say  you  so, 
Charley?  Begad,  the  young  ones  will  beat  us  all  out  of  the 
field.  Who  is  it  with — not  old  Blake  himself — how  was  it?  tell 
me  all.” 

I immediately  detailed  the  whole  events  of  the  preceding 
chapter,  as  well  as  his  frequent  interruptions  would  permit,  and 
concluded  by  asking  what  further  step  was  now  to  be  taken,  as 


CHARLES  OAIALLEY.  38 

I was  resolved  the  matter  should  be  concluded  before  it  came  to 
my  uncle’s  ears. 

“ There  you  are  all  right,  quite  correct,  my  boy;  but  there  are 
many  points  I should  have  wished  otherwise  in  the  conduct  of 
the  aifair  hitherto.” 

Conceiving  that  he  was  displeased  at  my  petulance  and  bold- 
ness I was  about  to  commence  a kind  of  defense,  when  he 
added; 

‘‘Because,  you  see,”  said  he,  assuming  an  oracular  tone  of 
voice,  “ throwing  a wine-glass,  with  or  without  wine,  in  a. man’s 
face,  is  merely,  as  you  may  observe,  a mark  of  denial  and  dis- 
pleasure at  some  observation  he  may  have  made,  not  in  any  wise 
intended  to  injure  him,  further  than  in  the  wound  to  his  honor 
at  being  so  insulted,  for  which,  of  course,  he  must  subsequently 
call  you  out.  Whereas,  Charley,  in  the  present  case — the  view 
I take  is  different;  the  expression  of  Mr.  Bodkin,  as  regards  your 
uncle,  was  insulting  to  a degree— gratuitously  offensive,  and 
warranting  a blow.  Therefore,  my  boy,  you  should,  under  such 
circumstances,  have  preferred  aiming  at  him  with  a decanter — 
a cut-glass  decanter,  well  aimed,  and  low  I have  seen  do  effective 
service.  However,  as  you  remark,  it  was  your  first  thing  of  the 
kind,  I am  pleased  with  you — very  much  pleased  with  you. 
Now  then,  for  the  next  step,”  so  saying,  he  arose  from  his  ."bed, 
and  striking  a light  with  a tinder  box,  proceeded  to  dress 
himself  as  leisurely  as  if  for  a dinner  party — talking  all  the 
while. 

“ I will  just  take  Godfrey’s  tax-cart  and  the  roan  mare  on  to 
Meelish,  put  them  up  at  the  little  inn — it  is  not  above  a mile 
from  Bodkin’s — and  I’ll  go  over  and  settle  the  thing  for  you:  you 
must  stay  quiet  till  I come  back,  and  not  leave  the  house  on  any 
account.  I’ve  got  a case  of  old  broad  barrels  there  that  will 
answer  you,  beautifully;  if  you  were  anything  of  a shot,  I’d 
give  you  my  own  cross  handles,  but  they’d  only  spoil  your 
shooting.” 

“I  can  hit  a wine-glass  in  the  stem  at  fifteen  paces,”  said  I, 
rather  nettled  at  the  disparaging  tone  in  which  he  spoke  of  my 
performance. 

“I  don’t  care  sixpence  for  that,  the  v/ine-glass  has  no  pistol 
in  his  hand.  Take  the  old  German,  then;  see  now,  hold  your 
pistol  thus;  no  finger  on  the  guard  there,  those  two  on  the  trig- 
ger. They  are  not  hair  triggers;  drop  the  muzzle  a bit;  bend 
your  elbow  a trifle  more;  sight  your  man  outside  your  arm; 
outside  mind,  and  take  him  in  the  hip,  and,  if  anywhere  higher, 
no  matter.” 

By  this  time  the  Count  had  completed  his  toilet,  and,  taking 
the  small  mahogany  box,  which  contained  his  peace-makers, 
under  his  arm,  led  the  way  toward  the  stables.  When  he  reached 
the  yard,  the  only  person  stirring  there  was  a kind  of  half-witted 
boy,  who  being  about  the  house,  was  employed  to  run  of  mes- 
sages for  the  servants,  walk  a stranger’s  horse,  or  to  do  any  of 
the  many  petty  services  that  regular  domestics  contrive  always 
to  devolve  upon  some  adopted  subordinate.  He  was  seated  upon 
a stone  step,  formerely  used  for  mounting,  and  though  the  day 


34 


CHARLES  aMALLEY.. 


was  scarcely  breaking,  and  the  weather  severe  and  piercing,  the 
poor  fellow  was  singing  an  Irish  song,  in  a low  monotonous  tone, 
as  he  chafed  a curb  chain  between  his  hands  with  some  sand. 
As  we  came  near  he  started  up,  and  as  he  pulled  off  his  cap  to 
salute  us,  gave  a sharp  and  piercing  glance  at  the  Count,  then  at 
me;  then  once  more  upon  my  companion,  from  whom  his  eyes 
were  turned  to  the  brass-bound  box  beneath  his  arm;  when,  as 
if  seized  with  a sudden  impulse,  he  started  on  his  feet,  and  set 
off  toward  the  house  with  the  speed  of  a greyhound,  not,  how- 
ever, before  Considine’s  practiced  eye  had  anticipated  his  plan; 
for,  throwing  down  the  pistol  cases,  he  dashed  after  him,  and  in 
an  instant  had  seized  him  by  the  collar. 

‘‘It  won’t  do,  Patsey,”  said  the  Count,  “you  can’t  double  on 
me.” 

“Oh,  Count,  darlin'.  Mister  Considine  avick  don’t  do  it,  don’t 
now,  ” said  the  poor  fellow,  falling  on  his  knees,  and  blubbering 
like  an  infant. 

“ Hold  your  tongue,  you  villain,  or  I’ll  cut  it  out  of  your  head,” 
said  Considine. 

“ And  so  I will;  but  don’t  do  it,  don’t  for  the  love  of ” 

“Don’t  do  what,  you  whimpering  scoundrel?  What  does  he 
think  h’ll  do  ?” 

“Don’t  I know  very  well  what  you’re  after,  what  you’re 
always  after,  too?  oh  wirra,  wirra!”  Here  he  wrung  his  hands, 
and  swayed  himself  backward  and  forward,  a true  picture  of 
Irish  grief. 

“ I’ll  stop  his  blubbering,”  said  Considine,  opening  the  box,  and 
taking  out  a pistol  which  he  cocked  leisurely,  and  pointed  at  the 
poor  fellow’s  head;  “ another  syllable  now,  and  I’ll  scatter  your 
brains  upon  that  pavement.  ” 

“ And  do,  and  devil  thank  you;  sure  it’s  your  trade.” 

The  coolness  of  the  reply  threw  us  both  off  our  guard  so  com- 
pletely that  we  burst  out  into  a hearty  fit  of  laughing. 

“ Come,  come,”  said  the  Count  at  last;  “ this  will  never  do;  if 
he  goes  on  in  this  way,  we’ll  have  the  whole  house  about  us. 
Come,  then,  harness  the  roan  mare,  and  here’s  half  a crown 
for  you.” 

“ I wouldn’t  touch  the  best  piece  in  your  purse,”  said  the  poor 
boy?  “sure  it’s  blood-money,  no  less.” 

The  words  were  scarcely  ^oken,  when  Considine  seized  him 
by  the  collar  with  one  hand,  and  by  the  wrist  with  the  other, 
and  carried  him  over  the  yard  to  the  stable,  where,  kicking  open 
the  door,  he  threw  him  on  a heap  of  stones,  adding,  “ If  you  stir 
now  I’ll  break  every  bone  in  your  body;”  a threat  that  seemed 
certainly  considerably  increased  in  its  terrors,  from  the  rough 
grip  he  had  already  experienced,  for  he  had  rolled  himself  up 
like  a ball,  and  sobbed  as  if  his  heart  were  breaking. 

^ Very  few  minutes  sufficed  us  now  to  harness  the  mare  in  the 
tax-cart,  and  when  all  was  ready,  Considine  seized  the  whip, 
and,  locking  the  stable  door  upon  Patsey,  was  about  to  get  up, 
when  a sudden  thought  struck  him:  “ Charley,”  said  he,  “ that 
fellow  will  find  some  means  to  giye  the  alarm,  vre  must  take 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


35 


liitn  with  us.”  So  saying,  he  opened  the  door,  and,  taking  the 
poor  fellow  by  the  collar,  flung  him  at  my  feet  in  the  tax-cart. 

We  had  already  lost  some  time,  and  the  roan  mare  was  put  to 
her  fastest  speed  to  make  up  for  it.  Our  pace  became  accord- 
ingly a sharp  one,  and  as  the  road  was  bad,  and  the  tax-cart  “ no 
patent  inaudible,”  neither  of  us  spoke.  To  me  this  was  a great 
relief;  the  events  of  the  last  few  days  had  given  them  the  sem- 
blance of  years,  and  all  the  reflection  I could  muster  was  little 
enough  to  make  anything  out  of  the  chaotic  mass — love,  mis- 
chief, and  misfortune — in  which  I had  been  involved  since  my 
leaving  O'Malley  Castle. 

“ Here  we  are,  Charley,”  said  Considine,  drawing  up  short  at 
the  door  of  a little  country  ale-house,  or,  in  Irish  parlance, 
shebeen,  which  stood  at  the  meeting  of  dour  bleak  roads,  in  a wild 
and  barren  mountain  track,  beside  the  Shannon.  “ Here  we  are, 
my  boy;  jump  out  and  let  us  be  stirring.” 

‘‘Here,  Patsey,  my  man,”  said  the  Count,  unraveling  the 
prostrate  and  doubly -knotted  flgure  at  our  feet;  “ lend  a hand, 
Patsey.”  Much  to  my  astonishment,  he  obeyed  the  summons 
with  alacrity,  and  proceeded  to  unharness  the  mare  with  the 
greatest  dispatch.  My  attention,  was,  however,  soon  turned 
from  him  to  my  own  more  immediate  concerns,  and  I followed 
my  companion  into  the  house. 

Joe,”  said  the  Count  to  the  host,  “ is  Mr.  Bodkin  up  at  the 
house  this  morning  ?” 

“ He’s  just  passed  this  way,  sir,  with  Mr.  Malowney  of  Tillna- 
muck,  in  the  gig,  on  their  way  from  Mr.  Blake's.  They  stopped 
here  to  order  horses  to  go  over  to  O'Malley  Castle,  and  the  gos- 
soon is  gone  to  look  for  a pair.” 

“ All  right,”  said  Considine,  and  added  in  a whisper,  “ we've 
done  it  well,  Charley,  to  be  beforehand,  or  the  governor  would 
have  found  it  all  out,  and  taken  the  affair  into  his  own  hands. 
Now,  all  you’ve  to  do  is  to  stay  quietly  here  till  I come  back, 
which  will  not  be  above  an  hour  at  furthest.  Joe,  lend  me  the 
pony — keep  an  eye  on  Patsey,  that  he  doesn’t  play  us  a trick — 
the  short  way  to  Mr.  Bodkin’s  is  through  Scariff — ah,  I know  it 
well.  Good-bye,  Charley — by  the  Lord,  we’ll  pepper  him.” 

These  were  the  last  words  of  the  worthy  Count  as  he  closed 
the  door  behind  him  and  left  me  to  my  own  not  over-agreeable  re- 
flections. Independently  of  my  youth  and  perfect  ignorance  of 
the  world,  which  left  me  unable  to  form  any  correct  judgment 
on  my  conduct,  I k..  jw  that  I had  taken  a great  deal  of  wine, 
and  was  highly  excited  when  my  unhappy  collision  with  Mr. 
Bodkin  occurred.  Whether,  then,  I had  been  betrayed  into  any- 
thing which  could  fairly  have  provoked  his  insulting  retort  or 
not,  I could  not  remember;  and  now  my  most  afflicting  thought 
was,  what  opinion  might  be  entertained  of  me  by  those  at 
Blake’s  table;  and,  above  all,  what  Miss  Dash  wood  herself 
would  have,  and  what  narrative  of  the  occurrence  would  reach 
her  The  great  effort  of  my  last  few  days  had  been  to  stand 
well  in  her  estimation,  to  appear  something  better  in  feeling, 
something  higher  in  principle  than  the  rude  and  unpolished 
squirearchy  about  me;  and  now  here  was  the  end  of  it!  What 


86 


CHAULES  aMALLEY. 


would  she,  what  could  she  think,  but  that  I was  the  same 
punch-drinking,  rowing,  quarreling  bumpkin  as  those  whom 
I had  been  so  lately  carefully  endeavoring  to  separate  myself 
from.  How  I hated  myself  for  the  excess  to  which  passion  had 
betrayed  me,  and  how  I detested  my  opponent  as  the  cause  of 
all  my  present  misery!  How  very  differently,  thought  I,  her 
friend,  the  Captain,  would  have  conducted  himself!  His  quiet 
and  gentlemanly  manner  would  have  done  fully  as  much  to  wipe 
out  any  insult  on  his  honor  as  I could  do,  and,  after  all,  would 
neither  have  disturbed  the  harmony  of  a dinner-table  nor  made 
himself,  as  I shuddered  to  think  I had,  a subject  of  rebuke,  if  not 
of  ridicule.  These  harassing,  torturing  reflections  continued 
to  press  on  me,  and  I paced  the  room  with  my  hands  clasped 
and  the  perspiration  upon  my  brow.  One  thing  is  certain— I 
can  never  see  her  again,  thought  I;  this  disgraceful  business 
must,  in  some  shape  or  other,  become  known  to  her,  and  all  I 
have  been  saying  these  last  three  days  rise  up  in  judgment 
against  this  one  act,  and  stamp  me  an  impostor;  I that  decried, 
nay,  derided  our  false  notion  of  honor.  Would  that  Considine 
were  come.  What  can  keep  him  now  ? J walked  to  the  door; 
a boy  belonging  to  the  house  was  walking  the  roan  before  the 
door.  What  had  then  become  of  Pat?  I inquired;  but  no  one 
could  tell — he  had  disappeared  shortly  after  our  arrival,  and  had 
not  been  seen  afterward.  My  own  thoughts  were,  however,  too 
engrossing  to  permit  me  to  think  more  of  this  circumstance, 
and  I turned  again  to  enter  the  house,  when  I saw  Considine 
advancing  up  the  road  at  the  full  speed  of  his  pony. 

‘‘Out  with  the  mare  Charley — be  alive,  my  boy — all’s  set- 
tled.” So  saying,  he  sprang  from  the  pony,  and  proceeded  to 
harness  the  roan  with  the  greatest  haste,  informing  me  in  broken 
sentences,  as  he  went  on  with  all  the  arrangements: 

“We  are  to  cross  the  bridge  of  Portumna.  They  won  the 
ground,  and  it  seems  Bodkin  likes  the  spot;  he  shot  Payton 
there  three  years  ago.  Worse  luck  now,  Charley,  you  know; 
by  all  the  rules  of  chance,  he  can’t  expect  the  same  thing  twice 
— never  four  by  honors  in  two  deals — didn’t  say  that  though — a 
sweet  meadow,  I know  it  well;  small  hillocks  like  mole- hills  all 
over  it — caught  him  at  breakfast;  I don’t  think  he  expected  the 
message  to  come  from  us,  but  said  that  it  was  a very  polite  at- 
tention, and  so  it  was,  you  know.” 

So  he  continued  to  ramble  on,  as  we  once  more  took  our  seats 
in  the  tax-cart,  and  set  out  for  the  ground. 

“What  are  you  thinking  of,  Charley?”  said  the  Count,  as  I 
kept  silent  for  some  minutes. 

“ Pm  thinking,  sir,  if  I were  to  kill  him,  what  I must  do 
after.” 

“ Right,  my  boy;  nothing  like  that,  but  I’ll  settle  all  for  you. 
Upon  my  conscience,  if  it  wasn’t  for  the  chance  of  his  getting 
into  another  quarrel  and  spoiling  the  election,  I’d  go  back  for 
Godfrey;  he’d  like  to  see  you  break  ground  so  prettily.  And  you 
say  you’re  no  shot?” 

“Never  could  do  anything  with  the  pistol  to  speak  of,  sir,” 
said  I,  remembering  his  rebuke  of  the  morning. 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


37 


I don’t  mind  that;  you’ve  a good  eye;  nev(^r  take  it  off  him 
after  you’re  on  the  ground — follow  him  everywhere;  poor  Cal- 
laghan, that’s  gone,  shot  his  man  always  that  way;  he  had  a 
way  of  looking  without  winking  that  was  very  fatal,  at  a short 
distance;  a very  good  thing  to  learn,  Charley,  when  you  have  a 
little  spare  time.” 

Half  an  hour’s  sharp  driving  brought  us  to  the  river-side, 
where  a boat  had  been  provided  by  Considine  to  ferry  us  over. 
Tt  was  now  about  eight  o’clock,  and  a heavy,  gloomy  morning; 
much  rain  had  fallen  over  night;  and  the  dark  and  lowering  at- 
mosphere seemed  charged  with  more.  The  mountains  looked 
twice  their  real  size,  and  all  the  shadows  were  increased  to  an 
enormous  extent.  A very  killing  kind  of  light  it  was,  as  the 
Count  remarked. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

THE  DUEL. 

As  the  boatmen  pulled  in  toward  the  shore,  we  perceived,  a 
few  hundred  yards  off,  a group  of  persons  standing,  whom  we 
soon  recognized  as  our  opponents.  ‘‘  Charley,”  said  the  Count, 
grasping  my  arm  lightly,  as  I stood  up  to  spring  on  the  land, 
“ Charley,  although  you  are  only  a boy  as  I may  say,  I have  no 
fear  for  your  courage;  but,  still,  more  than  that  is  needful  here. 
This  Bodkin  is  a noted  duelist,  and  will  try  to  shake  your  nerve. 
Now,  mind  that  you  take  everj  thing  that  happens  quite  with  an 
air  of  indifference — don’t  let  him  think  that  he  has  any  advan- 
tage over  you,  and  you’ll  see  how  the  tables  will  be  turned  in 
your  favor.” 

Trust  to  me.  Count,”  said  I,  ‘T’ll  not  disgrace  you.” 

He  pressed  my  hand  tightly,  and  I thought  that  I discerned 
something  like  a slight  twitch  about  the  corners  of  his  grim 
mouth,  as  if  some  sudden  and  painful  thought  had  shot  across  his 
mind,  iDut  in  a moment  he  was  calm  and  stern-looking  as  ever. 

Twenty  minutes  late,  Mr.  Considine,”  said  a short,  red-faced 
little  man,  with  a military  frock  and  foraging  cap,  as  he  held  out 
his  watch  in  evidence. 

‘‘  I can  only  say.  Captain  Malowny,  that  we  lost  no  time  since 
we  parted;  we  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  a boat;  but  in  any 
case,  we  are  here  now,  and  that  I opine,  is  the  important  part  of 
the  matter.” 

“ Quite  right,  very  just  indeed.  Will  you  present  me  to  your 
young  friend — very  proud  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir;  your 
uncle  and  I met  more  than  once  in  this  kind  of  way.  I was  out 
with  him  in  ’92 — was  it  ? no,  I think  it  was  ’93 — when  he  shot 
Harry  Burgoyne,  who,  by  the  by,  was  called  the  crack  shot  of 
our  mess;  but,  begad  your  uncle  knocked  his  pistol  hand  to 
shivers,  saying,  in  his  dry  way,  ‘ he  must  try  the  left  hand  this 
morning.’  Count,  a little  this  side,  if  you  please.”  While  Consi- 
dine and  the  Captain  walked  a few  paces  apart  from  where  I 
stood,  I had  leisure  to  observe  my  antagonist,  who  stood  among 
a group  of  his  friends,  talking  aud  laughing  away  in  great  spirits. 
As  the  tone  they  spoke  in  was  not  of  the  lowest,  I could  catch 


CHARLES  am  ALLEY. 


fe 

much  of  their  conversation  at  the  distance  I was  from  them. 
They  were  discussing  the  last  occasion  that  Bodkin  had  visited 
this  spot,  and  talking  of  the  fatal  event  which  had  happened  then. 

“Poor  devil,”  said  Bodkin,  “ it  wasn’t  his  fault;  but  you  see 

some  of  the thhad  been  showing  white  feathers,  before  that 

and  he  was  obliged  to  go  out.  In  fact,  the  Colonel  himself  said: 
‘ Fight  or  leave  the  corps.’  Well,  out  he  came;  it  was  a cold  morn- 
ing in  February,  with  a frost  the  night  before,  going  off  in  a thin 
rain;  well,  it  seems  he  had  the  consumption,  or  something 
of  that  sort,  with  a great  cough,  and  spitting  of  blood,  and 
this  weather  made  him  worse,  and  he  was  very  weak 
when  he  came  to  the  ground.  Now  the  moment  I got  a 
glimpse  of  him,  I said  to  myself,  he’s  pluck  enough,  but  as  nervous 
as  a lady,  for  his  eye  wandered  all  about,  and  his  mouth  was  cer* 
tainly  twitching.  ‘ Take  off  your  great-coat,  Ned,’  said  one  of  his 
people,  when  they  were  going  to  put  him  up;  ‘ take  it  off  man.’  He 
seemed  to  hesitate  for  an  instant,  when  Michael  Blake  remarked; 
‘ Arrah,  let  him  alone;  it’s  his  mother  makes  him  wear  it,  for  the 
cold  he  has.’  They  all  began  to  laugh  at  this,  but  I kept  my  eyes 
upon  him,  and  I saw  that  his  cheek  grew  quite  livid  and  a kind  of 
gray  color,  and  his  eyes  filled  up;  ‘I  have  you  now,’  said  I to 
myself,  and  I shot  him  through  the  lungs.” 

“And  this  poor  fellow,”  thought  I,  “was  the  only  son  of  a 
widowed  mother.  I walked  from  the  spot  to  avoid  hearing  fur- 
ther, and  felt  as  I did  so,  something  like  a spirit  of  vengeance 
rising  within  me,  for  the  fate  of  one  so  untimely  cut  off.” 

“Here  we  are,  all  ready,”  said  Malowny,  springing  over  a 
small  fence  into  the  adjoining  field — “take  your  ground,  gen- 
tlemen.” 

Considine  took  my  arm  and  walked  forward.  “Charley,” 
said  he,  “ I am  to  give  the  signal— I’ll  drop  my  glove  when  you 
are  to  fire,  but  don’t  look  at  me  at  all.  I’ll  manage  to  catch 
Bodkin’s  eye,  and  do  you  watch  him  steadily,  and  fire  when  he 
does.” 

“ I think  that  the  ground  we  are  leaving  behind  us  is  rather 
better,”  said  some  one. 

“ So  it  is,”  said  Bodkin,  “ but  it  was  troublesome  to  carry  the 
young  gentleman  down  that  way — here  all  is  fair  and  easy.” 

The  next  instant  we  were  placed,  and  I well  remember  the 
first  thought  that  struck  me  was,  that  there  could  be  no  chance 
of  either  of  us  escaping! 

“Now  then,”  said  the  Count,  “I’ll  walk  twelve  paces,  turn 
and  drop  this  glove,  at  which  signal  you  fire — and  together, 
mind.  The  man  who  reserves  his  shot  falls  by  my  hand.”  This 
very  summary  denunciation  seemed  to  meet  general  approba- 
tion, and  the  Count  strutted  forth.  Notwithstanding  the  ad- 
vice of  my  friend,  I could  not  help  turning  my  eyes  from  Bod- 
kin to  watch  the  retiring  figure  of  the  Count.  At  length  he 
stopped — a second  or  two  elapsed — he  wheeled  rapidly  round 
and  let  fall  the  glove.  My  eye  glanced  toward  my  opponent,  I 
raised  my  pistol  and  fired.  My  hat  turned  half  round  upon  my 
head,  and  Bodkin  fell  motionless  to  the  earth.  I saw  the  peo- 
ple around  me  rush  forward;  I caught  two  or  three  glances 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY, 


BO 


thrown  at  me  with  an  expression  of  revengeful  passion;  I felt 
some  one  grasp  me  round  the  waist  and  hurry  me  from  the  spot, 
and  it  was  at  least  ten  minutes  after,  as  we  were  skimming  the 
surface  of  the  broad  Shannon,  before  I could  well  collect  my 
scattered  faculties  to  remember  all  that  was  passing,  as  Consi- 
dine  pointed  to  the  two  bullet  holes  in  my  hat,  remarking: 

sham  practice,  Charley,  it  was  the  overcharge  saved  you.” 

“ Is  he  killed,  sir?”  I asked. 

‘‘  Not  quite,  I believe,  but  as  good;  you  took  him  just  above 
the  hip.” 

^“Can  he  recover?”  said  I,  with  a voice  tremulous  from  agita- 
tion, which  I vainly  endeavored  to  conceal  from  my  com- 
panion, 

“Not  if  the  doctor  can  help  it,”  said  Considine,  “for  the 
fool  keeps  poking  about  for  the  ball;  but  now  let’s  think  of  the 
next  step — you’ll  have  to  leave  this,  and  at  once,  too.” 

Little  more  passed  between  us.  As  we  rowed  toward  the 
shore,  Considine  was  following  up  his  reflections,  and  I had 
mine,  alas!  too  many  and  too  bitter  to  escape  from. 

As  we  neared  the  land  a strange  spectacle  caught  our  eye;  for 
a considerable  distance  along  the  coast  crowds  of  country  people 
were  assembled,  who,  forming  in  groups,  and  breaking  into 
parties  of  two  and  three,  were  evidently  watching  with  great 
anxiety  what  was  taking  place  at  the  opposite  side.  Now,  the 
distance  was  at  least  three  miles,  and  therefore  any  part  of  the 
transaction  which  had  been  enacted  there,  must  have  been  quite 
beyond  their  view.  While  I was  wondering  at  this,  Considine 
cried  out  suddenly:  “ Too  infamous,  by  Jove;  we’re  murdered 
men.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ?”  said  I. 

“ Don’t  you  see  that?”  said  he  pointing  to  something  black 
which  floated  from  a pole  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  river. 

“Yes;  vrhatisit?” 

“ It’s  his  coat  they’ve  put  upon  an  oar  to  show  the  people  he’s 
killed,  that’s  all.  Every  man  here’s  his  tenant,  and  look— there! 
— they’ve  not  given  us  much  doubt  as  to  their  intention.” 
Here  a tremendous  yell  burst  forth  from  the  mass  of  people 
along  the  shore,  which,  rising  to  a terrific  cry,  sunk  gradually 
down  to  a low  wailing,  then  rose  and  fell  again  several  times, 
as  the  Irish  death-cry  filled  the  air,  and  rose  to  heaven,  as  if  im- 
ploring vengeance  on  a murderer. 

The  appalling  influence  of  the  keen^  as  it  is  called,  had  been 
familiar  to  me  from  my  infancy,  but  it  needed  the  awful  situa- 
tion I was  placed  in  to  consummate  its  horrors.  It  was  at  once 
my  accusation  and  my  doom.  I knew  well,  none  better,  the 
vengeful  character  of  the  Irish  peasant  of  the  west,  and  that  my 
death  was  certain  I had  no  doubt.  The  very  crime  that  sat 
upon  my  heart  quailed  its  courage,  and  unnerved  my  arm.  As 
the  boatmen  looked  from  us  toward  the  shore,  and  again  at  our 
faces,  they,  as  if  instinctively,  lay  upon  their  oars  and  waited 
for  our  decision  as  to  what  course  to  pursue. 

“ Rig  the  spritsail,  my  boys,”  said  Considine  “ and  let  her 


40 


CHAtlLES  O^MALLEY. 


head  lie  up  the  river,  and  be  alive,  for  I see  they’re  bailing  a boat 
below  the  reef  there,  and  will  bo  after  us  in  no  time.” 

The  poor  fellows,  who,  although  strangers  to  us,  sympathiz- 
ing in  what  they  perceived  to  be  our  imminent  danger,  stepped 
the  light  spar  which  acted  as  a mast,  and  shook  out  their  scanty 
rag  of  canvas  in  a minute.  Considine,  meanwhile,  went  aft, 
and  steadying  her  head  with  an  oar,  held  the  small  craft  up  to 
the  wind,  till  she  lay  completly  over,  and  as  she  rushed  through 
the  water,  ran  dipping  her  gunnel  through  the  white  foam. 

, “ Where  can  we  make,  without  tacking,  boys?”  inquired  the 

Count, 

“If  it  blows  on  as  fresh,  sir,  we’ll  run  you  ashore  within  half 
a mile  of  the  castle.” 

“Put  oat  an  oar  to  leeward,”  said  Considine,  “and  keep 
her  up  more  to  the  wind,  and  I promise  you,  my  lads,  you  will 
not  go  home  fresh  and  fasting,  if  you  land  us  where  you 
say. 

“ Here  they  come,”  said  the  other  boatman,  as  he  pointed 
back  with  his  finger  toward  a large  yawl  which  shot  suddenly 
from  the  shore,  with  six  sturdy  fellows  pulling  at  their  oars, 
while  three  or  four  others  were  endeavoring  to  get  up  their  rig- 
ging, which  appeared  tangled  and  confused  at  the  bottom  of  the 
boat;  the  white  splash  of  water  which  fell  at  each  moment  be- 
side her,  showing  that  the  process  of  bailing  was  still  continued. 

“Ah,  then,  may  I never — av  it  isn’t  the  ould  Dolphin  they 
have  launched  for  the  cruise,”  said  one  of  our  fellows. 

“ What’s  the  Dolphin,  then  ?” 

“An  ould  boat  of  the  lord’s  (Lord  Clanricarde’s)  that  didn’t 
see  water,  except  when  it  rained,  these  four  years,  and  is  sun- 
cracked  from  stem  to  stern!” 

“She  can  sail,  however,”  said  Considine,  who  watched  with 
painful  anxiety,  the  rapidity  of  her  course  through  the  water. 

“Nabocklish,  she  was  a smugglers  jolly-boat,  and  well  used 
to  it.  Look  how  they’re  pulling.  God  pardon  them!  but  they’re 
in  no  blessed  humor  this  morning.” 

“ Lay  out  upon  your  oars,  boys;  the  wind’s  failing  us,”  cried 
the  Count,  as  the  sail  flapped  lazily  against  the  mast. 

“ It’s  no  use,  your  honor,”  said  the  elder;  “ Ave’ll  be  only  break- 
ing our  liearts  to  no  purpose,  they’re  sure  to  catch  us.” 

“Do  as  I bade  you,  at  all  events.  What’s  that  ahead  of  us 
there  ?” 

“ The  oat  rock,  sir;  a vessel  with  grain  struck  there  and  went 
down  with  all  on  aboard,  four  years  last  winter.  There’s  no 
channel  between  it  and  the  shore — all  sunk  rocks  every  inch  of 
it.  There’s  the  breeze;”  the  canvas  fell  over  as  he  spoke,  and 
the  little  craft  lay  down  to  it  till  the  foaming  water  bubbled 
over  her  lee  bow.  “Keep  her  head  up,  sir,  higher,  higher  still;” 
but  Considine  little  heeded  the  direction,  steering  straight  for 
the  narrow  channel  the  man  alluded  to.  “ Tare  and  ages,  but 
you’re  going  right  for  the  cloch  na  quirkji.” 

“ Arrah,  an’  the  divil  a taste  I’ll  be  drowned  for  your  devar- 
sion,”  said  the  other,  springing  up. 

“ Sit  down  there,  and  be  still,”  roared  Considine.  «s  he  drew 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


41 


a pistol  f)  om  the  case  at  his  feet,  if  you  don’t  want  some  lead- 
en ballast  to  keep  you  so.  Here,  Charley,  take  this,  and  if  that 
fellow  stirs  hand  or  foot — you  understand  me.”  The  two  men 
sat  sulkily  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  which  now  was  actually 
flying  through  the  water.  Considine’s  object  was  a clear  one; 
he  saw  that,  in  so  sailings  we  were  greatly  overmatched,  and 
that  our  only  chance  lay  in  reaching  the  narrow  and  dangerous 
channel  between  the  oat  rock  and  the  shore,  by  which  we  should 
distance  the  pursuit;  the  long  reef  of  rocks  that  ran  out  beyond 
requiring  a wide  berth  to  escape  from.  Nothing  but  the  danger 
behind  us  could  warrant  so  rash  a daring;  the  whole  channel 
was  dotted  with  patches  of  white  and  breaking  foam,  the  sure 
evidence  of  the  mischief  beneath,  while  here  and  there  a dash  of 
spurting  spray  flew  up  from  the  dark  ^water  where  some  cleft 
rock  lay  hid  below  the  flood.  Escape  seemed  impossible;  but 
who  would  not  have  preferred  even  so  slender  a chance  with  so 
frightful  an  alternative  behind  them!  As  if  to  add  terror  to 
the  scene,  Considine  had  scarcely  turned  the  boat  ahead  of  the 
channel  when  a tremendous  blackness  spread  over  all  around — 
the  thunder  pealed  forth,  and,  amid  the  crashing  of  the  hail  and 
the  bright  glare  of  lightning,  a squall  struck  ns,  and  laid  us  nearly 
keel  uppermost  for  several  minutes.  I well  remember  we  rush- 
ed through  the  dark  and  blackening  water;  our  little  craft  more 
than  half  filled,  the  oars  floating  off  to  leeward,  and  we  ourselves 
kneeling  on  the  bottom  planks  for  safety.  Roll  after  roll  of 
loud  thunder  broke,  as  it  ^vere,  just  above  our  heads,  while,  in 
the  swift  dashing  rain  that  seemed  to  hiss  around  us,  every  ob- 
ject was  hidden,  and  e\en  the  other  boat  was  lost  to  our  view. 
The  two  poor  fellows!  I shall  never  forget  their  expression ; one, 
a devout  Catholic,  had  placed  a little  leaden  image  of  a saint  be- 
fore him  in  the  bow,  and  implored  its  intercession  with  a tortur 
ing  agony  of  suspense  that  wrung  my  very  heart;  the  other, 
apparently  less  alive  to  such  consolations  as  his  church  afforded, 
remained  with  his  hands  clasped,  his  mouth  compressed,  his 
brows  knitted,  and  his  dark  eyes  bent  upon  me,  with  the  fierce 
hatred  of  a deadly  enemy;  his  eyes  were  sunken  and  bloodshot, 
and  all  told  of  some  dreadful  conflict, within;  the  wild  ferocity 
of  his  look  fascinated  my  gaze,  and  amid  all  the  terrors  of  the 
scene  1 could  not  look  from  him.  As  I gazed,  a second  and 
more  awful  squall  struck  the  boat,  the  mast  bent  over,  and  with 
a loud  report  like  a pistol  shot,  smashed  at  the  thwart,  and  fell 
over,  trailing  the  sail  along  the  milky  sea  behind  us;  meanwhile 
the  water  rushed  clean  over  us,  and  the  boat  seemed  settling. 

At  this  dreadful  moment  the  sailor’s  eye  was  bent  upon  me, 
his  lips  parted,  and  he  muttered,  as  if  to  himself:  “ This  it  is 
to  goto  sea  with  a murderer.”  Oh  God!  the  agony  of  that  mo- 
ment— the  heartfelt  and  accusing  conscience,  that  I was  judged 
and  doomed,  that  the  brand  of  Cain  was  upon  my  brow,  that 
tny  fellow-men  had  ceased  forever  to  regard  me  as  a brother, 
that  I was  an  outcast  and  a wanderer  forever.  I bent  forward 
till  my  forehead  fell  upon  my  knees,  and  I wept.  Meanwhile, 
the  boat  flew  through  the  water,  and  Considine.  who  alone 
among  us  seemed  not  to  lose  his  presence  of  mind,  unshipped 


42 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


the  mast,  and  sent  it  overboard.  The  storm  now  began  to  abate, 
and,  as  the  black  mass  of  clouds  broke  from  around  us,  we  be- 
held the  other  boat  also  dismasted,  far  behind  us,  while  all  on 
board  of  her  were  employed  in  bailing  out  the  water  with  which 
she  seemed  almost  sinking.  The  curtain  of  mist  that  had  hidden 
us  from  each  other  no  sooner  broke,  than  they  ceased  their  labors 
for  a moment,  and,  looking  toward  us,  burst  forth  into  a yell,  so 
wild,  so  savage,  and  so  dreadful,  my  very  heart  quailed  as  its 
cadence  fell  upon  my  ear. 

“ Safe,  my  boy,”  said  Considine,  clapping  me  on  the  shoulder, 
as  he  steered  forth  the  boat  from  its  narrow  path  of  danger,  and 
once  more  reached  the  broad  Shannon;  “safe,  Charley;  though 
we’ve  had  a brush  for  it.”  In  a minute  more  we  reached  the 
land,  and,  drawing  our  gallant  little  craft  on  shore,  set  out  for 
O’MaUey  Castle. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  RETURN. 

O’Malley  Castle  lay  about  four  miles  from  the  spot  we 
landed  at,  and  thither  accordingly  we  bent  our  steps  without 
loss  of  time.  We  had  not,  however,  proceeded  far  when,  before 
us  on  the  road,  we  perceived  a mixed  assemblage  of  horses  and 
foot  hurrying  along  at  a tremendous  rate.  The  mob,  which  con- 
sisted of  some  hundred  country  people,  were  armed  with  sticks, 
scythes,  and  pitchforks,  and,  although  not  preserving  any  very 
military  aspect  in  their  order  of  march,  were  still  a force  quite 
formidable  enough  to  make  us  call  a halt,  and  deliberate  upon 
what  we  were  to  do. 

“ They’ve  out-flanked  us,  Charley,”  said  Considine;  “ however, 
all  is  not  yet  lost;  bui  see,  they’ve  got  sight  of  us — here  they 
come.” 

At  these  words  the  vast  mass  before  us  came  pouring  along, 
splashing  the  mnd  on  every  side,  and  huzzaing  like  so  many 
Indians.  In  the  front  ran  a bare- legged  boy,  waving  his  cap  to 
encourage  the  rest,  who  followed  him  at  about  fifty  yards  be- 
hind. 

“ Leave  that  fellow  for  me,”  said  the  Count,  coolly  examining 
the  lock  of  his  pistol.  “ I’ll  pick  him  out,  and  load  again  in  time 
for  his  friends’  arrival.  Charley,  is  that  a gentleman  I see  far 
back  in  the  crowd? — yes,  to  be  sure  it  is;  he’s  on  a large  horse — 
now  he’s  pressing  forward,  so  let — no — oh— ay — it’s  Godfrey 
O’Malley  himself,  and  these  are  our  own  people.”  Scarcely  were 
the  words  out  when  a tremendous  cheer  arose  from  the  multi- 
tude, who,  recognizing  us  at  the  same  instant,  sprung  from  their 
horses  and  ran  forward  to  welcome  us.  Among  the  foremost 
was  the  scarecrow  leader,  whom  I at  once  perceived  to  be  poor 
Patsey,  who,  escaping  in  the  morning,  had  returned  at  full  speed 
to  O'Malley  Castle,  and  raised  tlie  whole  country  to  my  rescue. 
Before  I could  address  one  word  to  my  faithful  followers  I was 
in  my  uncle’s  arms. 

‘ ‘ Safe,  my  boy,  quite  safe  ?” 

“ Quite  safe,  sir.” 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


43 


“ No  scratch  anywhere?” 

Nothing  but  a hat  the  worse,  sir,”  said  I,  showing  the  two 
bullet- holes  in  my  head-piece. 

His  lip  quivered  as  he  turned  and  whispered  something  into 
Considine’s  ear  which  I heard  not;  but  the  Count’s  reply  was: 

“ Devil  a bit,  as  cool  as  you  see  him  this  minute.” 

“ And  Bodkin,  what  of  him  ?” 

“ This  day’s  work’s  his  last,”  said  Considine;  “ the  ball  entered 
here;  but  come  along,  Godfrey;  Charley’s  new  at  this  kind  of 
thiug,  and  we  had  better  discuss  matters  in  the  house.” 

Half  an  hour’s  brisk  trot — for  we  were  soon  supplied  with  horses 
— brought  us  back  to  the  castle,  much  to  the  disappointment  of 
our  cortege,  who  had  been  promised  a scrimmage,  and  went  back 
in  very  ill-humor  at  the  breach  of  contract. 

The  breakfast-room,  as  we  entered,  was  filled  with  uncle’s  sup- 
porters, all  busily  engaged  over  poll-books  and  booth-tallies,  in 
preparation  for  the  eventful  day  of  battle.  These,  however, 
were  immediately  thrown  aside  to  hasten  around  me,  and  in- 
quire all  the  details  of  my  duel.  Considine,  happily  for  me, 
however,  assumed  all  the  dignity  of  an  historian,  and  recounted 
the  events  of  the  morning,  so  much  to  my  honor  and  glory,  that 
I,  who  only  a little  before  felt  crushed  and  bowed  down  by  the 
misery  of  my  late  duel,  began,  amid  the  warm  congratulations 
and  eulogiums  about  me,  to  think  I was  no  small  hero;  and,  in 
fact,  something  very  much  resembling  “ the  Man  for  Galway.” 
To  this  feeling  a circumstance  that  followed  assisted  in  contrib- 
uting while  we  were  eagerly  discussing  the  various  results  likely 
to  arise  from  the  meeting,  a horse  galloped  rapidly  to  the  door, 
and  a loud  voice  called  out:  “ I can’t  get  off,  but  tell  him  to  come 
here.”  We  rushed  out  and  beheld  Captain  Malowny,  Mr.  Bod- 
kin’s second,  covered  with  mud  from  head  to  foot,  and  his  horse 
reeking  with  foam  and  sweat.  “ I am  hurrying  on  to  Athlon  e 
for  another  doctor;  but  I’ve  called  to  tell  you  that  the  wound  is 
not  supposed  to  be  mortal — he  may  recover  yet.”  Without  wait- 
ing for  another  word,  he  dashed  spurs  into  his  nag  and  rattled 
down  the  avenue  at  full  gallop.  Mr.  Bodkin’s  dearest  friend  on 
earth  could  not  have  received  the  intelligence  with  more  delight, 
and  I now  began  to  listen  to  the  congratulations  of  my  friends 
with  a more  tranquil  spirit.  My  uncle,  too,  seemed  much  re- 
lieved by  the  information,  and  heard  with  great  good  temper  my 
narrative  of  the  few  days  at  Gurt-na-morra.  “So  then,”  said 
he,  as  I concluded,  “ my  opponent  is  at  least  a gentleman,  that  is 
a comfort.” 

“Sir  George  Dashwood,”  said  I,  “ from  all  I have  seen,  is  a 
remarkably  nice  person,  and  I am  certain  you  will  meet  with 
only  the  fair  and  legitimate  opposition  of  an  opposing  candidate 
in  him — no  mean  or  unmanly  subterfuge.” 

“All  right,  Charley.  Well,  now,  your  affair  of  this  morning 
must  keep  you  quiet  here  for  a few  days,  come  what  will;  by 
Monday  next,  when  the  election  takes  place.  Bodkin’s  fate 
will  be  pretty  clear,  one  way  or  the  other,  and,  if  matters  go 
well,  you  can  come  into  town;  otherwise  I have  arranged  with 
Considine  to  talie  you  over  to  the  Continent  for  a year  or  so; 


44 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


but  we’ll  discuss  all  this  in  the  evening.  Now,  I must  start  on 
a canvass.  Boyle  expects  to  meet  you  at  dinner  to-day;  he  is 
coming  from  Athlone  on  purpose.  Now,  good-bye!” 

When  my  uncle  had  gone,  I sank  into  a chair  and  fell  into  a 
musing  lit  over  all  the  changes  a few  hours  had  wrought  in  me. 
From  a mere  boy,  whose  most  serious  employment  was  stocking 
the  house  with  game,  or  inspecting  the  kennel,  I had  sprung  at 
once  into  man’s  estate,  was  complimented  for  my  coolness, 
praised  for  my  prowess,  landed  for  my  discretion,  by  those 
who  were  my  seniors  by  nearly  half  a century;  talked  to  in  a 
tone  of  confidential  intimacy  by  my  uncle,  and,  in  a Tvord, 
treated  in  all  respects  as  an  equal — and  such  was  all  the  work 
of  a few  hours.  But  so  it  is,  the  eras  in life  are  separated  by  a 
narrow  boundary;  some  trifling  accident,  some  casual  rencontre, 
impels  us  across  the  Rubicon,  and  we  pass  from  infancy  to  youth 
— from  youth  to  manhood — from  manhood  to  age — less  by  the 
slow  and  inperceptible  step  of  time  than  by  some  one  decisive 
act  or  passion,  which,  occurring  at  a critical  moment,  elicits  a 
long  latent  feeling,  and  impresses  our  existance  with  a color 
that  tinges  it  for  many  a long  year.  As  for  me,  I had  cut  the 
tie  which  bound  me  to  the  careless  gayety  of  boyhood,  with  a 
rude  gash.  In  three  short  days  I had  fallen  deeply,  desper- 
ately in  love,  and  had  wounded,  if  not  killed,  an  antagonist  in  a 
duel.  As  I meditated  on  these  things,  I was  aroused  by  the 
noise  of  horses’  feet  in  the  yard  beneath.  I opened  the  window, 
and  beheld  no  less  a person  than  Captain  Hammersly.  He  was 
handing  a card  to  a servant,  which  he  was  accompanying  by  a 
verbal  message.  The  impression  of  something  like  hostility  on 
the  part  of  the  Captain  had  never  left  my  mind;  and  I hastened 
down-stairs  just  in  time  to  catch  him  as  he  turned  from  the 
door. 

Ah,  Mr.  O’Malley!”  said  he,  in  a most  courteous  tone,  ‘‘  they 
told  me  you  were  not  at  home.” 

I apologized  for  the  blunder,  and  begged  of  him  to  alight  and 
come  in. 

“I  thank  you  very  much;  but,  in  fact,  my  hours  are  now 
numbered  here;  I have  just  received  an  order  to  join  my  regi- 
ment, We  have  been  ordered  for  service,  and  Sir  George  has 
most  kindly  permitted  my  giving  up  my  staff  appointment.  I 
could  not,  however,  leave  the  country  without  shaking  hands 
with  you.  I owe  you  a lesson  in  horsemanship,  and  I’m  only 
sorry  that  we  are  not  to  have  another  day  together.” 

“ Then  you  are  going  out  to  the  Peninsula  ?”  said  I. 

“ Why,  we  hope  so;  the  commander-in-chief,  they  say,  is  in 
great  want  of  cavalry,  and  we  scarcely  less  in  want  of  something 
to  do.  I’m  sorry  you  are  not  coming  with  us.” 

Would  to  Heaven  I were,”  said  I,  with  an  earnestness  that 
almost  made  my  brain  start. 

“Then,  why  not?” 

“ Unfortunately,  I am  peculiarly  situated.  My  worthy  uncle, 
who  is  all  to  me  in  this  world,  would  be  quite  alone  if  I were  to 
leave  him;  and,  although  he  has  never  said  so,  I know  he  dreads 
the  possibility  of  my  suggesting  such  a thing  to  him;  so  that, 


CHARLES  a MALLET. 


45 


between  his  fears  and  mine,  the  matter  is  never  broached  by 
either  party,  nor  do  I think  ever  can  be,” 

“ Devilish  hard — but  I believe  you  are  right;  something,  how- 
ever, may  turn  up  yet  to  alter  his  mind;  and  if  you  do  take  to 
the  dragooning,  don’t  forget  George  Hammersly  will  be  always 
most  delighted  to  meet  you.  And  so,  good-bye,  O’Malley,  good- 
bye.” 

He  turned  his  horse’s  head,  and  was  already  some  paces 
off,  when  he  returned  to  my  side,  and  added,  in  a lower  tone  of 
voice: 

‘*1  ought  to  have  mentioned  to  you  that  there  has  been  much 
discussion  on  your  affair  at  Blake’s  table,  and  only  one  opinion 
on  the  matter  among  all  parties — that  you  acted  perfectly 
right.  Sir  George  Dashwood — no  mean  judge  of  such  things — 
quite  approves  of  your  conduct,  and  I believe  wishes  you  to 
know  as  much;  and  now,  once  more,  good-bye.” 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  ELECTION. 

The  important  morning  at  length  arrived,  and,  as  I looked  from 
my  bedroom  window  at  daybreak,  the  crowd  of  caniages  of  all 
sorts  and  shapes  decorated  with  banners  and  placards;  the  inces- 
sant bustle;  the  hurrying  hither  and  thither;  the  cheering  as 
each  new  detachment  of  voters  came  up,  mounted  on  jaunting 
cars,  or  on  horses  whose  whole  caparison  consisted  in  a straw 
rope  for  a bridle,  and  a saddle  of  the  same  frail  material;  all  in- 
formed me  that  the  election  day  w^as  come.  I lost  no  further 
time,  but  proceeded  to  dress  with  all  possible  dispatch.  When 
I appeared  in  the  breakfast-room,  it  was  already  filled  with  some 
seventy  or  eighty  persons  of  all  ranks  and  ages,  mingled  confus- 
edly together,  and  enjoying  the  hospitable  fare  of  my  uncle’s 
house,  while  they  discussed  all  the  details  and  prospects  of  the 
election.  In  the  hall — the  library — the  large  drawing-room,  too, 
similar  parties  were  also  assembled,  and,  as  new-comers  arrived, 
the  servants  were  busy  in  preparing  tables  before  the  door  and 
up  the  large  terrace  that  ran  the  entire  length  of  the  building. 
Nothing  could  be  more  amusing  than  the  incongruous  mixt- 
ure of  the  guests,  who,  with  every  variety  of  eatable  that  chance 
or  inclination  provided,  were  thus  thrown  into  close  contact, 
having  only  this  in  common,  the  success  of  the  cause  they  were 
engaged  in.  Here  was  the  old  Galway  squire,  with  an  ancestry 
that  reached  Noah,  sitting  side  by  side  with  the  poor  cottier, 
whose  whole  earthly  possession  was  what  in  Irish  phrase,  is 
called  a “ potato  garden,”  meaning  the  exactly  smallest  possible 
patch  of  gound  out  of  which  a very  Indian- rubber  conscience 
would  presume  to  vote.  Here  sat  the  old  simple-minded,  farm- 
er-like  man,  in  close  conversation  with  a little  white-forehead- 
ed, keen-eyed  personage,  in  a black  coat  and  eye-glass — a flash 
attorney  from  Dublin,  learned  in  flaws  of  the  registry,  and  deep 
in  the  subtleties  of  election  laws.  There  was  an  Athlone  horse- 
dealer,  whose  habitual  daily  practices  in  imposing  the  halt,  the 
lame,  and  the  blind  upon  the  unsuspecting,  for  beasts  of  blood 


46 


CHARLES  aMALLEl. 


and  mettle,  well  qualified  him  for  the  trickery  of  a county  con- 
test. Then  there  were  scores  of  squireen  gentry,  easily  recog- 
nized on  common  occasions  by  a green  coat  with  brass  buttons, 
dirty  cords,  and  dirtier  top-boots,  a lash- whip,  and  a half-bred 
fox-hound;  but  now,  fresh  washed  for  the  day,  they  presented 
something  of  the  appearance  of  a swell-mob,  adjusted  to  the 
meridian  of  Galway.  A mass  of  frieze- coated,  brown-faced, 
bullet-headed  peasantry  filling  up  the  large  spaces,  dotted  here 
and  there  wuth  a sleek,  roguish-eyed  priest,  or  some  low  election- 
eering agent,  detailing,  for  the  amusement  of  the  county,  some 
of  those  cunning  practices  of  former  times,  which,  if  known  to 
the  proper  authorities,  would,  in  all  likelihood,  cause  the  talent- 
ed narrator  to  be  improving  the  soil  of  Sidney,  or  fishing  on  the 
banks  of  the  Swan  Eiver,  while,  at  the  head  and  foot  of  each 
table,  sat  some  personal  friend  of  my  uncle,  whose  ready  tongue, 
and  still  readier  pistol,  made  him  a personage  of  some  conse- 
quence, not  more  to  his  own  people,  than  to  the  enemy. 

While  of  such  material  were  the  company,  the  fare  before 
them  was  no  less  varied;  here  some  rubicund  squire  was  deep 
in  amalgamating  the  contents  of  a venison  pasty  with  some  of 
Sneyd’s  oldest  claret;  his  neighbor,  less  ambitious  and  less  eru- 
dite in  such  matters,  was  devouring  rashers  of  bacon  with  liberal 
potations  of  poteen;  some  pale-cheeked  scion  of  the  law%  with 
all  the  dust  of  the  Four  Courts  in  his  throat,  was  sipping  his 
humble  beverage  of  black  tea,  beside  four  sturdy  cattle-dealers, 
from  Ballinasloe,  who  were  discussing  hot  whisky  punch  and 
spoleaion  (boiled  beef)  at  the  very  primitive  hour  of  eight  in  the 
morning.  Amid  the  clank  of  decanters,  the  clash  of  knives  and 
plates,  the  jingling  of  glasses,  the  laughter  and  voices  of  the 
guests  were  audibly  increasing,  and  the  various  modes  of  “run- 
ning a buck,”  (Anglice,  substituting  a vote),  or  hunting  a badger, 
were  talked  over  on  all  sides,  while  the  price  of  a veal  (a  calf)  or 
a voter  was  disputed  with  all  the  energy  of  debate. 

Refusing  many  an  offered  place,  I went  through  the  different 
rooms,  in  search  of  Considine,  to  whom  circumstances  of  late 
had  somehow  greatly  attached  me. 

“Here,  Charley,”  cried  a voice  I was  very  familiar  with; 

here’s  a place  I’ve  been  keeping  for  you.” 

“ Ah,  Sir  Harry,  how  do  you  do  ? Any  of  that  grouse-pie  to 
spare  ?” 

“ Abundance,  my  boy;  but  I’m  afraid  I can’t  say  as  much  for 
the  liquor;  I have  been  shouting  for  claret  this  half  hour  in  vain 
— do  get  us  some  nutriment  down  here,  and  the  Lord  will  re- 
ward you.  What  a pity  it  is,”  he  added  in  a lower  tone  to  his 
neighbor;  “what  a pity  a quart  bottle  won’t  hold  j quart;  but 
I’ll  bring  it  before  the  House  one  of  these  days.”  That  he  kept 
his  word  in  this  respect,  a motion  on  the  books  of  the  Honorable 
House  will  bear  me  witness. 

“Is  this  it?”  said  he,  turning  toward  a farmer- like  old  man, 
who  had  put  some  question  to  him  across  the  table;  “is  it  the 
apple-pie  you’ll  have  ?” 

“Many  thanks  to  your  honor — I’d  like  it,  av  it  was  whole- 

some,” 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


47 


“ And  why  shouldn’t  it  be  wholesome?”  said  Sir  Harry. 

‘‘Troth  then  myself  does  not  know;  but  my  father,  I heard 
tell,  died  of  an  apple-plexy,  and  I’m  afeerd  of  it.” 

I at  length  found  Considine,  and  learned  that,  as  a very  good 
account  of  Bodkin  had  arrived,  there  was  no  reason  why  I 
should  not  proceed  to  the  hustings;  but  I was  secretly  charged 
not  to  take  any  prominent  part  in  the  day’s  proceedings.  My 
uncle  I only  saw  for  an  instant — he  begged  me  to  be  careful, 
avoid  all  scrapes,  and  not  to  quit  Considine.  It  was  past  ten 
o’clock  when  our  formable  procession  got  under  way,  and  headed 
toward  the  town  of  Galway.  The  road  was,  for  miles,  crowded 
with  our  followers;  banners  flying  and  music  playing,  w^e  pre- 
sented something  of  the  spectacle  of  a very  ragged  army  on  its 
march.  At  every  cross-road  a mountain-path  reinforcement 
awaited  us,  and  as  we  wended  along,  our  numbers  were  mo- 
mentarily increasing;  here  and  there  along  the  line,  some  ener- 
getic and  not  over  sober  adherent  was  regaling  his  auditory  with 
a speech  in  laudation  of  the  O’Malley’s  since  the  days  of  Moses, 
and  more  than  one  priest  was  heard  threatening  the  terrors  of 
his  church  in  aid  of  a cause  to  wdiose  success  he  was  pledged 
and  bound.  I rode  beside  the  Count,  who,  surrounded  by  a 
group  of  choice  spirits,  recounted  the  various  happy  inventions 
by  which  he  had  on  divers  occasions  substituted  a personal  quar- 
rel for  a contest.  Boyle  also  contributed  his  share  of  election 
anecdote,  and  one  incident  he  related,  which  I remember, 
amused  me  much  at  the  time. 

“Do  you  remember  Billy  Calvert,  that  came  down  to  contest 
Kilkenny  ?”  inquired  Sir  Harry. 

“What!  ever  forget  him!”  said  Considine,  “’yith  his  well- 
powdered  wig,  and  his  hessians.  There  never  was  his  equal 
for  lace  ruffles  or  rings.” 

“\ou  never  heard,  maybe,  how  he  lost  the  election?” 

“ He  resigned,  I believe,  or  somet,^ing  of  that  sort.” 

“ No,  no,”  said  another,  “ he  never  came  forward  at  all;  there 
was  some  secret  in  it,  for  Tom  Butler  was  elected  without  a 
contest.” 

“Jack,  I’ll  tell  you  how  it  happened.  I was  on  my  way  up 
from  Cork,  having  finished  my  own  business,  and  just  carried  the 
day,  not  without  a push  for  it.  When  we  reached — Lady  Mary 
was  with  me — when  we  reached  Kilkenny,  the  night  before 
the  election,  I was  not  ten  minutes  in  town  till  Butler  heard  of 
it,  and  sent  off  express  to  see  me;  I was  at  my  dinner  when 
the  messenger  came,  and  promised  to  go  over  when  I’d  done; 
but,  faith,  Tom  didn’t  wait,  but  came  rushing  up-stairs  himself, 
and  dashed  into  the  room  in  the  greatest  hurry. 

“‘Harry,’  says  he  ‘I’m  done  for;  the  corporation  of  free 
smiths,  that  were  always  above  bribery,  having  voted  for  my- 
self and  my  father  before,  for  four  pounds  ten  a man,  won’t 
come  forward  under  six  guineas  and  whisky.  Calvert  has  the 
money;  they  know  it — the  devil  a farthing  we  have;  and  we’ve 
been  paying  all  our  fellows  that  can’t  read  in  Hennesy’s  notes, 
and  you  know  the  bank’s  broke  these  three  weeks.’ 

“On  he  went,  giving  me  a most  disastrous  picture  of  his 


4B 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


cause,  and  concluding  by  asking  if  I could  suggest  anything 
under  the  circumstances. 

“ ‘ You  couldn't  get  a decent  mob  and  clear  the  poll  T 
I am  afraid  not,’  said  he,  despondingly. 

“ ‘ Then  I don’t  see  what’s  to  be  done;  if  you  can’t  pick  a fight 
with  himself — will  he  go  out?’ 

“ ‘ Lord  knows;  they  say  he’s  so  afraid  of  that,  that  it  has  pre- 
vented him  coming  down  till  the  very  day;  but  he  is  arrived 
now;  he  came  in  the  evening,  and  is  stopping  at  Walsh’s,  in 
Patrick  street.’ 

‘‘  ‘ Then  I’ll  see  what  can  be  done,’  said  I. 

‘‘  ‘Is  that  Calvert,  the  little  man  that  blushes  when  the  Lady 
Lieutenant  speaks  to  him  ?’  said  Lady  Mary. 

“ ‘ The  very  man.’ 

“ ‘ Would  it  be  of  any  use  to  you  if  he  could  not  come  on  the 
hustings  to-morrow  ?’  said  she  again. 

“ ‘ ’Twould  gain  us  the  day;  half  the  voters  don’t  believe  he’s 
here  at  all,  and  his  chief  agent  cheated  all  the  people  on  the  last 
election,  and  if  Calvert  didn’t  appear,  he  wouldn't  have  ten 
voters  to  register.  But  why  do  you  ask  ?’ 

“ ‘ Why,  that,  if  you  like.  I’ll  bet  you  a pair  of  diamond  ear- 
rings he  shan’t  show.’ 

“ ‘ Done,’  said  Butler,  ‘ and  I promise  a necklace  into  the  bar- 
gain, if  you  wjn;  but  I’m  afraid  you’re  only  quizzing  me.’ 

“‘Here’s  my  hand  on  it,’  said  she;  ‘and  now  let’s  talk  of 
something  else.’ 

“ As  Lady  Boyle  never  asked  my  assistance,  and  as  I knew  she 
was  very  able  to  perform  whatever  she  undertook,  you  may  be 
sure  I gave  myself  very  little  trouble  about  the  whole  affair,  and 
when  they  came,  I went  off  to  breakfast  with  Tom’s  committee, 
not  knowing  anything  tii at  was  to  be  done. 

“ Calvert  had  given  orders  that  he  was  to  be  called  at  eight 
o’clock,  and  so  a few  minutes  before  that  time  a gentle  knock 
came  to  the  door.  ‘ Come  in,^  said  he,  thinking  it  was  the  waiter, 
and  covering  himself  up  in  the  clothes,  for  he  was  the  most  bash- 
ful creature  that  ever  was  seen;  ‘ Come  in.’ 

“ The  door  opened,  and  what  was  his  horror  to  find  that  a lady 
entered  in  her  dressing-gown,  her  hair  on  her  shoulders  very 
much  tossed  and  disheveled!  The  moment  she  came  in  she 
closed  the  door  and  locked  it,  and  then  sat  leisurely  down  upon 
a chair. 

“ Billy’s  teeth  chattered,  and  his  limbs  trembled,  for  this  was 
an  adventure  of  a very  novel  kind  for  him.  At  last,  he  took 
courage  to  speak.  ‘ I am  afraid,  madam,’  said  he,  ‘ that  you  are 
under  some  unhappy  mistake,  and  that  you  supposed  this  cham- 
ber was ’ 

“‘Mr.  Calvert’s,’  said  the  lady,  with  a solemn  voice,  ‘is  it 
not  ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes,  madam,  I am  that  person.’ 

“‘Thank  God,’ said  the  lady,  with  a very  impressive  tone, 
‘ here  I am  safe.’ 

“Billy  grew  very  much  puzzled  at  these  words;  but  hoping 
that,  by  his  silence,  the  lady  would  proceed  to  some  explanation, 


CHARLES  OMALLEY, 


40 


lie  said  no  more.  She,  however,  seemed  to  think  that  nothing 
further  was  necessary,  and  sat  still  and  motionless,  witli  her 
hands  before  her,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  Billy. 

‘ You  seem  to  forget  me,  sir  ?’  said  she,  with  a faint  smile. 

‘‘‘Ido,  indeed,  madam;  the  half  light,  the  novelty  of  your 
costume,  and  the  strangeness  of  the  circumstance,  altogether, 
must  plead  for  me — if  I appear  rude  enough.” 

“ ‘ I am  Lady  Mary  BoyJe,’  said  she. 

“ ‘ I do  remember  you,  madam;  but  may  I ask • 

“ ‘ Yes,  yes,  I know  what  you  would  ask;  you  would  say,  why 
are  you  here,  how  comes  it  that  you  have  so  far  outstepped  the 
propriety  of  which  your  whole  life  is  an  example,  that  alone,  at 
such  a time,  you  appear  in  the  chamber  of  a man  whose  charac- 
ter for  gallantry ’ 

“ ‘ Oh,  indeed — indeed,  my  lady,  nothing  of  the  kind.” 

“ ‘ Ah,  alas!  how  poor  defenseless  women  learn  too  late;  how 
constantly  associated  is  the  retiring  modesty  which  denies,  with 

the  pleasing  powers  which  insure  success ’ Here  she  sobbed, 

Billy  blushed,  and  the  clock  struck  nine. 

“ ‘ May  I then  beg,  madam ’ 

“ ‘Yes,  yes,  you  shall  hear  it  all;  but  my  poor  scattered  facul- 
ties will  not  be  the  clearer  by  your  hurrying  me.  You  know, 
perliaps,’  continued  she,  ‘that  my  maiden  . name  was  Rogers?’ 
He  of  the  blankets  bowed,  and  she  resumed:  ‘ It  is  now  eighteen 
years  since  that  a young,  unsuspecting,  fond  creature,  reared  in 
all  the  care  and  fondness  of  doting  parents,  attempted  her  first 
step  in  life,  and  trusted  her  fate  to  another’s  keeping.  I am 
that  unhappy  person;  the  other,  that  monster  in  human  guise 
that  smiled  but  to  betray,  that  won  but  to  ruin  and  destroy,  is 
he  whom  you  know  as  Sir  Harry  Boyle.’  Here  she  sobbed  for 
some  minutes,  wiped  her  eyes,  and  resumed  her  narrative,  be- 
ginning at  the  period  of  her  marriage,  detailed  a number  of  cir- 
cumstances, which  poor  Calvert,  in  all  his  anxiety  to  come  au 
fond  at  matters,  could  never  perceive  bore  upon  the  question  in 
any  way;  but,  as  she  recounted  them  all  with  great  force  and 
precision,  entreating  him  to  bear  in  mind  certain  circumstances 
to  which  she  should  recur  by  and  by,  his  attention  was  kept  on 
the  stretch,  and  it  was  only  when  the  clock  struck  ten  that  he 
was  fully  aw^are  how  his  morning  was  passing,  and  what  sur- 
mises his  absence  miglit  originate. 

“‘May  I interrupt  you  for  a moment,  dear  madam;  was  it 
nine  or  ten  o’clock  which  struck  last?* 

“ ‘ How  should  I know?’  said  sJie,  frantically;  ‘ w’hat  are  hours 
and  minutes  to  her  who  has  passed  long  years  of  misery?’ 

“ ‘ Very  true,  very  true,’  replied  he,  timidly,  and  rather  fearing 
for  the  intellects  of  his  fair  companion. 

“ She  continued. 

“The  narrative,  however,  so  far  from  becoming  clearer,  grew 
gradually  more  confused  and  intricate,  and  as  frequent  refer- 
ences were  made  by  the  lady  to  some  previous  statement,  Cal- 
vert was  more  than  once  rebuked  for  forgetfulness  and  inatten- 
tion, where,  in  reality,  nothing  less  than  short-hand  could  have 
borne  him  through. 


50 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


‘‘  ‘ Was  it  in  ninety- three,  I said,  that  Sir  Harry  left  me  at 
Tuam  ?’ 

“‘Upon  my  life,  madam,  I am  afraid  to  aver,  but  it  strikes 
me ’ 

“ ‘ Gracious  powers!  and  this  is  he  whom  I fondly  trusted  to 
make  the  depository  of  my  woes — cruel,  cruel  man.’  Here  she 
sobbed  considerably  for  several  minutes,  and  spoke  not. 

“A  loud  cheer  of  ‘Butler  forever,’  from  the  mob  without, 
now  burst  upon  their  hearing,  and  recalled  poor  Calvert  at  once 
to  the  thought  that  the  hours  were  speeding  fast,  and  no  pros- 
pect of  the  everlasting  tale  coming  to  an  end. 

“‘I  am  deeply,  most  deeply  grieved,  my  dear  madam,’ said 
the  little  man,  sitting  up  in  a pyramid  of  blankets,  ‘ but  hours, 
minutes,  are  precious  to  me  this  morning.  I am  about  to  be 
proposed  as  member  for  Kilkenny.’ 

“At  these  words,  the  lady  straightened  her  figure  out,  threw 
her  arms  on  either  side,  and  burst  into  a fit  of  laughter,  which 
poor  Calvert  knew  at  once  to  be  hysterics.  Here  was  a pretty 
situation:  the  bell  rope  lay  against  the  opposite  wall;  even  if  it 
did  not,  would  he  be  exactly  warranted  in  pulling  it  ? 

“ ‘ May  the  devil  and  all  his  angels  take  Sir  Harry  Boyle  and 
his  whole  connection  to  the  fifth  generation,’  was  his  sincere 
prayer,  as  he  sat  like  a Chinese  juggler  under  his  canopy. 

“At  length  the  violence  of  the  paroxysm  seemed  to  subside, 
the  sobs  became  less  frequent,  the  kicking  less  forcible,  and  the 
lady’s  eyes  closed  and  she  appeared  to  have  fallen  asleep.  ‘ Now 
is  the  moment,^  said  Billy;  ‘if  I could  only  get  as  far  as  my 
dressing-gown.’  So  saying,  he  worked  himself  down  noiselessly 
to  the  foot  of  his  bed,  looked  fixedly  at  the  fallen  lids  of  the 
sleeping  lady,  and  essayed  one  leg  from  the  blankets.  ‘ Now  or 
never,’  said  he,  pushing  aside  the  curtain,  and  preparing  foj’  a 
spring — one  more  look  he  cast  at  his  companion,  and  then  leaped 
forth;  but  just  as  he  lit  upon  the  floor,  she  again  aroused  her- 
self, screaming  with  horror.  Billy  fell  upon  the  bed,  and,  roll- 
ing hims^^lf  in  the  bed-clothes,  vowed  never  to  rise  again  till  she 
was  out  of  the  visible  horizon.  ‘ What  is  all  this;  what  do  you 
mean,  sir?’  said  the  lady,  reddening  with  indignation. 

' “ ‘ Nothing,  upon  my  soul,  madam;  it  was  only  my  dressing- 
gown.’ 

“‘Your  dressing-gown?’  said  she,  with  an  emphasis  worthy 
of  Siddons;  ‘ a likely  story  for  Sir  Harry  to  belibve,  sir;  fie,  fie, 
sir.’ 

“ This  last  allusion  seemed  a settler;  for  the  luckless  Calvert 
heaved  a profound  sigh,  and  sunk  down  as  if  all  hope  had  left 
him.  ‘ Butler  forever,’  roared  the  mob;  * Calvert  forever,’  cried 
the  boy’s  voice  from  without;  * Three  groans  for  the  runaway.’ 
answered  this  announcement;  and  a very  tender  inquiry  of 
‘ Where  is  he  ?’  was  raised  by  some  hundred  mouths. 

“ ‘ Madam,’  said  the  almost  frantic  listener,  ‘ madam,  I must 
get  up;  I must  dress;  I beg  of  you  to  permit  me.’ 

“ ‘ I have  nothing  to  refuse,  sir;  alas!  disdain  has  long  been 
my  only  portion.  Get  up,  if  you  will.’ 

“ ‘ But,’  said  the  astonished  man,  who  was  well  nigh  deranged 


CHARLES  OAIALLEY.  51 

at  the  coolness  of  this  reply,  ‘ but  how  am  I to  do  bo,  if  you  sit 
there  ?’ 

“ ‘ Sorry  for  any  inconvenience  I may  cause  you;  but,  in  the 
crowded  state  of  the  hotel,  I hope  you  see  the  impropriety  of  my 
walking  about  the  passages  in  this  costume  T 

“ ‘ And,  great  God!  madam,  why  did  you  come  out  in  it?’ 

“A  cheer  from  the  mob  prevented  her  reply  being  audible. 
One  o’clock  tolled  out  from  the  great  bell  of  the  cathedral. 

‘ There’s  one  o’clock,  as  I live.’ 

‘‘  ‘I  heard  it,’  said  the  lady. 

‘ The  shouts  are  increasing.  What  is  that  I hear?  Butler  is 
in.  Gracious  mercy!  is  the  election  over ?’ 

The  lady  stepped  to  the  window,  drew  aside  the  curtain,  and 
said:  ‘Indeed,  it  would  appear  so;  the  mob  are  chairing  Mr. 
Butler.’  [A  deafening  shout  burst  from  the  street.]  ‘Perhaps 
you’d  like  to  see  t'^e  fun,  so  I’ll  not  detain  you  any  longer.  So 
good-bye,  Mr.  Calvert;  and,  as  your  breakfast  will  be  cold,  in 
all  likelihood,  come  down  to  No,  4,  for  Sir  Harry’s  a late  man, 
and  will  be  glad  to  see  you.’  ” 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AN  ADVENTURE. 

As  thus  we  lightened  the  road  with  chatting,  the  increasing 
concourse  of  people,  and  the  greater  throng  of  carriages . that 
filled  the  road,  announced  that  we  had  nearly  reached  our 
destination. 

“Considine,”  said  my  uncle,  riding  up  to  where  we  were,  “ I 
have  just  got  a few  lines  from  Davern.  It  seems  Bodkin’s 
people  are  afraid  to  come  in;  they  know  what  they  must  expect, 
and,  if  so,  more  than  half  that  barony  is  lost  to  our  opponent.” 

“ Then  he  has  no  chance  whatever?” 

“ He  never  had,  in  my  opinion,”  said  Sir  Harry. 

“We’ll  see  soon,”  said  my  uncle,  cheerfully,  and  rode  to  the 
post. 

The  remainder  of  the  way  was  occupied  in  discussing  the  vari- 
ous possibilities  of  the  election,  into  which  I was  rejoiced  to  find 
that  defeat  never  entered. 

In  the  goodly  days  I speak  of,  a county  contest  was  a very 
dilferent  thing,  indee«i,  from  the  tame  and  insipid  farce  that  now 
passes  under  that  name;  where  a briefless  barrister,  bullied  by 
both  sides,  sits  as  assessor — a few  drunken  voters — a radical 
O’Connellite  grocer — a demagogue  priest — a deputy  grand  pur- 
ple, something  from  the  Trinity  College  lodge,  with  some  half 
dozen  followers,  shouting  to  the  “ devil  with  Peel,  or  down  with 
Dens,”  form  the  whole  corps  de  ballet.  No,  no;  in  the  times  I 
refer  to  the  voters  were  some  thousands  in  number,  and  the  ad- 
verse parties  took  the  field,  far  less  dependent  for  success  upon 
previous  pledge  or  promise  made  them,  than  upon  the  actual 
stratagem  of  the  day.  Each  went  forth,  like  a general  to  battle, 
surrounded  by  a numerous  and  well-chosen  staff;  one  party  of 
friends,  acting  as  a commissariat^  attending  to  the  victualing  of 


library 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


52 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


the  voters,  that  they  obtained  a due,  or  rather  undue  allowance 
of  liquor,  and  came  properly  drunk  to  the  poll;  others  again 
broke  into  skirmishing  parties,  and  Scattered  over  the  country, 
cut  off  the  enemy’s  supplies,  breaking  down  their  post-chaises, 
upsetting  their  jaunting-cars,  stealing  their  poll-books,  and  kid- 
napping their  agents.  Then  there  were  secret  service  people, 
bribing  the  enemy  and  enticing  them  to  desert;  and  lastly  there 
was  a species  of  sapper-and- miner  force,  w^ho  invented  false  doc- 
uments, denied  the  identity  of  the  opposite  party’s  people,  and, 
w^hen  hard  pushed,  provided  persons  who  took  bribes  from  the 
enemy,  and  gave  evidence  afterward  on  a petition.  Amid  all 
these  encounters  of  wit  and  ingenuity,  the  personal  friends  of 
the  candidate  formed  a species  of  rifle  brigade,  picking  out  the 
enemy’s  officers,  and  doing  sore  damage  to  their  tactics,  by 
shooting  a proposer  or  wounding  a seconder — a considerable  por-  : 
tion  of  every  leading  agent’s  fee  being  intended  as  compensation  ; 
for  the  duels  he  might,  could,  would,  should,  or  ought  to  fight 
during  the  election.  Such,  in  brief,  was  a contest  in  the  olden  ’ 
time;  and,  when  it  is  taken  into  consideration,  that  it  usually 
lasted  a fortnight  or  three  weeks,  that  a considerable  military  force 
was  always  engaged,  (for  our  Irish  law  permits  this)  and  which, 
when  nothing  pressing  was  doing,  was  regularly  assailed  by  both 
parties — that  far  more  dependence  was  placed  in  a bludgeon  than 
a pistol — and  that  when  a man  who  registered  a vote  without  a 
cracked  pate,  was  regarded  as  a kind  of  natural  phenomenon,  ■ 
some  faint  idea  may  be  formed  how  much  such  a scene  must 
have  contributed  to  the  peace  of  the  county,  and  the  happiness 
and  welfare  of  all  concerned  in  it. 

As  we  rode  along,  a loud  cheer  from  a road  that  ran  parallel 
to  the  one  we  were  pursuing  attracted  our  attention,  and  we 
perceived  that  the  cortege  of  the  opposite  party  was  hastening 
on  to  the  hustings.  I could  distinguish  the  Blake  girls  on  : 
horseback,  among  a crowd  of  officers  in  undress,  and  saw  some- 
thing like  a bonnet  in  the  carriage  and  four  which  headed  the  , 
procession,  and  which  I judged  to  be  that  of  Sir  George  Dash-  ^ 
wood.  My  heart  beat  stj*ongly  as  I strained  my  eyes  to  see  if  ’ 
Miss  Dashwood  were  there,  but  I could  not  discern  her,  and  it 
was  with  a sense  of  relief  that  1 reflected  on  the  possibility  of  : 
our  not  meeting  under  circumstances  wherein  our  feelings  and  in-  ^ 
terests  were  so  completely  opposed.  While  I was  engaged  in  j 
making  this  survey,  I had  accidentally  dropped  behind  my  com-  | 
panions;  my  eyes  were  firmly  fixed  upon  that  carriage,  and,  in  ] 
the  faint  hope  that  it  contained  the  object  of  all  my  wdshes,  I 
forgot  everything  else.  At  length  the  cortege  entered  the  town, 
and,  passing  beneath  a heavy  stone  gate- way,  was  lost  to  my  . 
view.  I was  still  lost  in  re  very,  when  an  under  agent  of  my 
uncle’s  rode  up.  ■ 

“Oh!  Master  Charles,”  said  he,  “what’s  to  be  done?  they’ve  ^ 
forgotten  Mr.  Holmes  at  Woodford,  and  we  haven’t  a carriage, 
chaise,  or  even  a car  left,  to  send  for  him.” 

“ Have  you  told  Mr.  Considine  ?”  inquired  1.  ^ 

“ And  sure  you  know  yourself  how  little  Mr.  Considine  thinks  , 
of  a lawyer.  It’s  small  comfort  he’d  give  me  if  I went  to  tell  him;  : 


1 


CHARLES  OAIALLEY,  53 

if  it  was  a case  of  pistols  or  a bullet  mold,  he’d  ride  back  the 
whole  way  himself  for  them.” 

[^“Try  Sir  Harry  Boyle,  then.” 

“ He’s  making  a speech  this  minute  before  the  court-house.” 

This  had  sufficed  to  show  me  how  far  behind  my  companions 
I had  been  loitering,  when  a cheer  from  the  distant  road  again 
turned  my  eyes  in  that  direction;  it  was  the  Dash  wood  carriage 
returning,  after  leaving  Sir  George  at  the  hustings.  The  head 
of  the  britska,  before  thrown  open,  was  now  closed,  and  I could 
not  make  out  if  any  one  were  inside. 

“ Devil  a doubt  of  it,”  said  the  agent,  in  answer  to  some  ques- 
tion of  a farmer  who  rode  beside  him;  “ will  you  stand  to  me?” 

“Troth,  to  be  sure  I will.” 

“ Here  goes  then,”  said  he,  gathering  up  his  reins  and  turning 
his  horsq  toward  the  fence  at  the  roadside;  “ follow  me  now, 
boys.” 

The  order  was  well  obeyed,  for,  when  he  had  cleared  the 
ditch,  a dozen  stout  country  fellows,  w’ ell-mounted,  were  beside 
him.  Away  they  went  at  a hunting  pace,  taking  every  leap  be- 
fore them,  and  heading  toward  the  road  before  us. 

Without  thinking  further  of  the  matter,  I was  laughing  at  the 
droll  effect  the  line  of  frieze  coats  presented  as  they  rode,  side 
by  side,  over  the  stone  walls,  when  an  observation  near  me 
arouced  my  attention. 

“Ah,  then,  av  they  know  anything  of  Jim  Finucane,  they’ll 
give  it  up  peaceably;  it’s  little  he’d  think  of  taking  the  coach 
from  under  the  judge  himself.” 

“What  are  they  about,  boys ?” said  I. 

“ Goin’  to  take  the  chaise  and  four  forninstye,  yer  honor,” 
said  the  man. 

I waited  not  to  hear  more,  but  darting  spurs  into  my  horse’s 
sides,  cleared  the  fence  at  one  bound.  My  horse,  a strong  knit 
half-bred,  was  as  fast  as  a racer  for  a short  distance;  so  that 
when  the  agent  and  his  party  had  come  up  with  the  carriage,  I 
was  only  a few  hundred  yards  behind.  I shouted  out  with  all 
my  might,  but  they  either  heard  not,  or  heeded  not;  for  scarcely 
was  the  first  man  over  the  fence  into  the  road,  when  the  postil- 
ion on  the  leader  was  felled  to  the  ground,  and  his  place  sup- 
plied by  his  slayer.  The  boy  on  the  wheeler  shared  the  same 
fate;  and,  in  an  instant,  so  well  managed  was  the  attack,  the 
carriage  was  in  possession  of  the  assailants.  Four  stout  fellows 
had  climbed  into  the  box  and  the  rumble,  and  six  others  wwe 
climbing  into  the  interior,  regardless  of  the  aid  of  steps.  By 
this  time  the  Dash  wood  party  had  got  the  alarm,  and  returned 
in  full  force — not,  however,  before  the  other  had  laid  whip  to 
the  horses  and  set  out  in  full  gallop;  and  now  commenced  the 
most  terrific  race  I ever  witnessed. 

The  four  carriage  horses,  which  were  the  property  of  Sir 
George,  were  English  thoroughbreds  of  great  value,  and  totally 
unaccustomed  to  the  treatment  they  experienced,  dashed  for- 
ward at  a pace  that  threatened  annihilation  to  the  carriage  at 
every  bound.  The  pursuers,  though  well  mounted,  were  speed- 
ily distanced,  but  followed  at  a pace  that,  in  the  end,  was  eer- 


54 


CHARLES  OMALLET. 


tain  to  overtake  the  carriage.  As  for  myself,  I rode  on  beside 
the  road,  at  the  full  speed  of  my  horse,  shouting,  cursing,  im- 
ploring, execrating,  and  beseeching  at  turns,  but  all  in  vain — 
the  yells  and  shouts  of  the  pursuers  and  pursued  drowned  all 
other  sounds,  except  when  the  thundering  crash  of  the  iiorses’ 
feet  rose  above  all.  The  road,  like  most  western  Irish  roads, 
until  the  present  century,  lay  straight  as  an  arrow  for  miles, 
regardless  of  every  opposing  barrier,  and,  in  the  instance  in 
question,  crossed  a mountain  at  its  very  highest  point.  Toward 
this  pinnacle  the  pace  had  been  tremendous;  but,  owung  to  the 
higher  breeding  of  the  cattle,  the  carriage  party  had  still  the 
advance,  and,  when  they  reached  the  top,  they  proclaimed  the 
victory  by  a cheer  of  triumph  and  derision.  The  carriage  dis- 
appeared beneath  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  and  the  pursuers 
halted,  as  if  disposed  to  relinquish  the  chase. 

“Come  on,  boys.  Never  give  up,’^ cried  I,  springing  over  to 
the  road  and  headiog  the  party,  to  which  by  every  right  I was 
opposed. 

It  was  no  time  for  deliberation,  and  they  followed  me  with  a 
hearty  cheer  that  convinced  me  that  I was  unknown.  The  next 
instant  we  were  on  the  mountain-top,  and  beheld  the  carriage, 
half-way  down  beneath  us,  still  galloping  at  full  stretch. 

“We  have  them  now,”  said  a voice  behind  me;  “ they’ll  never 
turn  Lurra  bridge,  if  we  only  press  on.” 

The  speaker  was  right;  the  road  at  the  mountain  foot  turned 
at  a petfect  right  angle,  and  then  crossed  a lofty  one-arched 
bridge  over  a mountain  torrent,  that  ran  deep  and  boisterously 
beneath.  On  we  went,  gaining  at  every  stride;  for  the  fellows 
who  rode  postilion  well  knew  what  was  before  them,  and  slack- 
ened their  pace  to  secure  a safe  turning.  A yell  of  victory 
arose  from  the  pursuers,  but  was  answered  by  the  others  with  a 
cheer  of  defiance.  The  space  v^^as  new  scarcely  two  hundred 
yards  between  us,  when  the  head  of  the  britska  was  fiung  down, 
and  a figure  that  I at  once  recognized  as  the  redoubted  Tim  Fin- 
ucane,  one  of  the  boldest  and  most  reckless  fellows  in  the  coun- 
try, was  seen  standing  on  the  seat — holding,  gracious  heavens, 
it  was  true — holding  in  his  arms  the  apparently  lifeless  figure  of 
Miss  Dashwood. 

“Hold  in!”  shouted  the  ruffian,  with  a voice  that  rose  high 
above  all  the  other  sounds.  “ Hold  in!  or  by  the  Eternal,  I’ll 
throw  her,  body  and  bones,  into  the  Lurra  Gash!”  for  such  was 
the  torrent  called  that  boiled  and  foamed  a few  yai’ds  before 
us. 

He  had  by  this  time  got  firmly  planted  on  the  hind  seat,  and 
held  the  drooping  form  on  one  arm,  with  all  the  ease  of  a giant’s 
grasp. 

“ For  the  love  of  God,”  said  I,  “ pull  up.  I know  him  well; 
he’ll  do  it  to  a certainty  if  you  press  on.” 

“ And  we  know  you,  too,”  said  a rufiianly  fellow,  with  a dark 
whisker  meeting  beneath  his  chin,  “ and  have  some  scores  to 
settle  ere  we  part ” 

But  I heard  no  more.  With  one  tremendous  effort  I dashed 
my  horse  forward.  The  carriage  turned  the  angle  of  the  road— 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


55 


for  an  instant  was  out  of  sight — another  moment  T was  behind  it. 

“ Stop!”  I shouted,  with  a last  effort,  but  in  vain.  The  horses, 
maddened  and  infuriated,  sprang  forward,  and,  heedless  of  all 
efforts  to  turn  them,  the  leaders  sprang  over  the  low  parapet  of 
the  bridge,  and,  hanging  for  a second  by  the  traces,  fell  with  a 
crash  into  the  swollen  torrent  beneath.  By  this  time  I was  be- 
side the  carriage — Finucane  had  now  clambered  to  the  box,  and, 
regardless  of  the  death  and  ruin  around,  bent  upon  his  murder- 
ous object,  he  lifted  the  light  and  girlish  form  above  his  head, 
bent  forward,  as  if  to  give  greater  impulse  to  his  effort — 
when,  twining  my  lash  around  my  wrist,  I leveled  my  heavy 
and  loaded  hunting  whip  at  his  liead;  the  weighted  ball  of  lead 
struck  him  exactly  beneath  his  hat;  he  staggered,  his  hands  re- 
laxed, and  he  fell  lifeless  to  the  ground;  the  same  instant  I was 
felled  to  the  earth  by  a blow  from  behind,  and  saw  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MICKEY  FREE. 

Nearly  three  weeks  followed  the  event  I have  just  narrated, 
ere  I was  again  restored  to  consciousness.  The  blow  by  which 
I was  felled,  from  what  hand  coming  was  never  after  discovered, 
had  brought  on  concussion  of  the  brain,  and  for  several  day  my 
life  was  despaired  of.  As  by  slow  steps  I advanced  toward  re- 
covery, I learned  from  Considine  that  Miss  Dashwood,  whose 
life  was  saved  by  my  interference,  had  testified,  in  the  warmest 
manner,  r gratitude;  and  that  Sir  George  had,  up  to  the  period 
of  his  leaving  the  country,  never  omitted  a single  day  to  ride 
ovei  and  inquire  for  me. 

“ You  know,  of  course,”  said  the  Count,  supposing  such  news 
was  the  most  likely  to  interest. me,  you  know  we  beat  them.” 

“No;  pray  tell  me  all.  They’ve  not  let  me  hear  anything 
hitherto.” 

“ One  day  finished  the  whole  affair;  we  polled  man  for  man 
till  past  two  o’clock,  when  our  fellows  lost  all  patience,  and  beafi 
their  tallies  out  of  the  town;  the  police  came  up,  but  they  beat 
the  police;  then  they  got  soldiers,  but,  begad,  they  were  too  strong 
for  them  too.  Sir  George  witnessed  it  all,  and  knowing,  besides, 
how  little  chance  he  had  of  success,  deemed  it  best  to  give  in;  so 
that  a little  before  five  o’clock  he  resigned.  I must  say,  no  man 
could  behave  better;  he  came  straight  across  the  hustings  and 
shook  hands  with  Godfrey,  and  as  the  news  of  the  scrimmage 
with  his  daughter  had  just  arrived,  said  that  he  was  sorry  his 
prospect  of  success  had  not  been  greater,  that,  in  resigning,  he 
might  testify  how  deeply  he  felt  the  debt  the  O’Malleys  had  laid 
him  under.” 

“ And  my  uncle,  how  did  he  receive  his  advances?” 

“ Like  liis  own  honest  self,  grasped  his  hand  firmly,  and 
upon  my  soul,  I think  he  was  half  sorry  that  he  gained  the 
day.  Do  you  know  he  took  a mighty  fancy  to  that  blue-eyed 
daughter  of  the  old  General’s — faith,  Charley,  if  he  was  some 

twenty  years  younger,  I would  not  say  but Come,  come,  I 

didn’t  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings;  but  I have  been  staying  here 


56 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


too  long;  111  send  up  Mickey  to  sit  with  you;  mind  and  don’t  be 
talking  too  much  to  him.” 

So  saying,  the  worthy  Count  left  the  room,  fully  impressed 
that,  in  hinting  at  the  possibility  of  my  uncle’s  marrying  again, 
he  had  said  something  to  ruffle  my  temper. 

For  the  next  two  or  three  weeks  my  life  was  one  of  the  most 
tiresome  monoton  y.  Strict  inductions  had  been  given  by  the  doc- 
tors to  avoid  exciting  me,  and  consequently,  every  one  that  came 
in,  walked  on  tiptoe,  spoke  in  whispers,  and  left  me  in  five  min- 
utes. Eeading  was  absolutely  forbidden,  and,  with  a somber  half 
light  to  sit  in,  and  chicken  broth  to  support  nature,  I dragged  out 
as  dreary  an  existence  as  any  gentleman  west  of  Athlone. 

Whenever  my  uncle  or  Considine  were  not  in  the  room,  my 
companion  was  my  own  servant,  Michael,  or,  as  he  was  better 
known  “ Mickey  Free.”  Now,  had  Mickey  been  left  to  his  own 
free  and  unrestricted  devices,  the  time  would  not  have  hung  so 
heavily;  for,  among  Mike’s  manifold  gifts,  he  was  possessed  of  a 
very  great  flow  of  gossiping  conversation;  he  knew  all  that  was 
doing  in  the  country,  and  never  was  barren  for  information 
wherever  his  imagination  could  come  into  play.  Mickey  was 
the  best  hurler  in  the  barony,  no  mean  performer  on  the  violin, 
could  dance  the  national  bolero  of  “ Tatter  Jack  Walsh”  in  a 
way  that  charmed  more  than  one  soft  heart  beneath  a red  wol- 
sey  bodice,  and  had,  withal,  the  peculiar  free-and-easy,  devil- 
may-care  kind  of  off-hand  Irish  way  that  never  deserted  him  in 
the  midst  of  his  wiliest  and  most  subtle  moments;  giving  to  a 
very  deep  and  cunning  fellow  all  the  apparent  frankness  and 
openness  of  a country  lad. 

He  had  attached  himself  to  me  as  a kind  of  sporting  com- 
panion; and,  growing  daily  more  and  more  useful,  had  been 
gradually  admitted  to  the  honors  of  the  kitchen  and  the  preroga- 
tives of  cast  clothes;  without  ever  having  been  actually  engaged 
as  a servant,  and  while  thus  no  warrant  officer,  as  in  fact  he  dis  - 
charged  all  his  duties  well  and  punctually  was  rated  among  the 
ship's  company;  though  no  one  ever  could  say  at  what  precise 
period  he  changed  his  caterpillar  existence  and  became  the  gay 
butterfly,  with  cords  and  tops,  a striped  vest,  and  a most  know- 
ing jerry  hat,  who  stalked  about  the  stable  yard  and  bullied  the 
helpers.  Such  was  Mike;  he  had  made  his  fortune,  such  as  it 
was,  and  had  a most  becoming  pride  in  the  fact  that  he  made 
himself  indispensable  to  an  establishment  which,  before  he  en- 
tered it,  never  knew  the  want  of  him.  As  for  me,  he  was  every- 
thing to  me;  Mike  informed  me  what  horse  was  wrong,  why  the 
chestnut  mare  couldn’t  go  out,  and  why  the  black  horse  could.  ‘ 
He  knew  the  arrival  of  a new  covey  of  partridges  quicker  than  the  ' 
Morning  Post  does  of  a noble  family  from  the  Con  tin  ent,  and  could 
tell  their  whereabouts  twice. as  accurately;  but  his  talents  took 
a wider  range  than  field  sports  afford,  and  he  was  the  faithful 
chronicler  of  every  wake,  station,  w^edding,  or  christening  for  miles 
round,  and,  as  I took  no  small  pleasure  in  those  very  national 
pastimes,  the  information  was  of  great  value  to  me.  To  con- 
clude this  brief  sketch,  Mike  was  a devout  Catholic,  in  the  same 
sense  that  he  was  enthusiastic  about  anything;  that  is,  he  ,be- 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


m 


lieved  and  obeyed  exactly  as  far  as  suited  his  own  peculiar  no- 
tions of  comfort  and  happiness;  beyond  that  his  skepticism 
stepped  in  and  saved  him  from  inconvenience,  and,  though  he 
might  have  been  somewhat  puzzled  to  reduce  his  faith  to  a 
rubric,  still  it  answered  his  purpose,  and  that  was  all  he  wanted. 
Such,  in  short,  was  my  valet,  Mickey  Free,  and  who,  had  not 
heavy  injunctions  been  laid  on  him,  as  to  silence  and  discretion, 
would  well  have  lightened  my  weary  hours. 

“Ah!  then,  Misther  Charles,”  said  he,  with  a half-suppressed 
yawn  at  the  long  period  of  probation  his  tongue  bad  been 
undergoing  in  silence,  “ ah,  then,  but  we  were  mighty  near  it.” 

“ Near  what  ?”  said  I. 

“Faith,  then,  mjself  doesn’t  well  know;  some  say  its  purga- 
thory;  but  its  hard  to  tell.” 

“ I thought  you  were  too  good  a Catholic,  Mickey,  to  show  any 
doubts  on  the  matter  ?” 

“Maybe  I am — maybe  I ain’t,”  was  the  cautious  reply. 

“ Wouldn’t  Father  Roach  explain  any  of  your  difficulties  for 
you,  if  you  went  over  to  him  ?” 

“Faix,  its  little  Fd  mind  his  explainings.” 

“ And  why  not?” 

“ Easy  enough.  If  you  ax  ould  Miles  there  without,  what 
does  he  be  doing  with  all  the  powther  and  shot,  wouldn’t  he  tell 
you  he's  shooting  the  rooks,  and  the  magpies,  and  some  other 
varmint;  but  myself  knows  he  sells  it  to  Widow  Casey,  at  two 
and  four  pence  a pound;  so  belikes  Father  Roach  may  be  shoot- 
ing away  at  the  poor  souls  in  purgathory,  that  all  this  time  are 
enjoying  the  hoith  of  fine  living  in  heaven,  ye  understand.” 

“ And  you  think  that’s  the  way  of  it,  Mickey  r” 

“ Troth,  it’s  likely.  Anyhow,  I know  it’s  not  the  place  they 
make  it  out.” 

“ Why,  how  do  you  mean?” 

“ Well,  then.  I’ll  tell  you,  Misther  Charles;  but  you  must  not 
be  saying  anything  about  it  afther;  for  I don’t  like  to  talk  about 
these  kind  of  things.” 

Having  pledged  myself  to  the  requisite  silence  and  secrecy, 
Mickey  began: 

“ Maybe  you  heard  tell  of  the  way  my  father,  rest  his  soul 
wherever  he  is,  came  to  his  end.  Well,  I needn't  mind  particu- 
lars, but,  in  short,  he  was  murdered  in  Ballinasloe  one  night, 
when  he  was  heatin’  the  whole  town  with  a blackthorn  stick  he 
had,  more  betoken,  a piece  of  a scythe  was  stuck  at  the  end  of  it;  a 
nate  weapon,  and  one  he  was  mighty  partial  to,  but  these  mur- 
dering thieves,  the  cattle  dealers,  that  never  cared  for  diversion 
of  any  kind,  fell  on  him  and  broke  his  skull. 

“ Well,  we  had  a very  agreeable  wake,  and  plenty  of  the  best 
of  everything,  and  to  spare,  and  I thought  it  was  all  over;  but, 
somehow,  though  1 paid  Father  Roach  fifteen  shillings,  and 
made  him  mighty  drunk,  he  always  gave  me  a black  look  where- 
ever  I met  him,  and  when  I took  off  my  hat,  he'd  turn  away  his 
head  displeased  like. 

^ “ ‘Murder  and  ages,’  says  I,  ‘ what’s  this  for?’  but  as  I’ve  a 
light  heart,  I bore  up,  and  didn’t  think  more  about  it.  One  day 


58 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


however,  I was  coming  home  from  Athlone  market,  by  myself 
on  the  road,  whe^  Father  Eoach  overtook  me.  Devil  a one  av 
me’ll  take  any  notice  of  you  now,’  says  I,  ‘ and  y^e’ll  see  what’ll 
come  out  of  ito’  So  the  priest  rid  up,  and  looked  me  straight  in 
the  face. 

“ ‘ Mickey,’  says  he,  ‘Mickey.’ 

“ ‘ Father,’  says  1. 

Is  it  that  way  you  salute  your  clargy,’  says  he,  ‘ with  your 
caubeen  on  your  head  ?’ 

“ ‘ Faix,’  says  I ‘it’s  little  ye  mind  whether  it’s  an  or  aff,  for 
you  never  take  the  trouble  to  say  by  your  leave,  or  damn  your 
soul,  or  any  other  politeness,  when  we  meet.’ 

“ ‘ You  re  an  ungrateful  creature,’ says  he,  ‘and  if  you  only 
knew,  you’d  be  trembling  in  your  skin  before  me  this  minute.’ 

“ ‘ Devil  a tremble,*  says  I,  ‘ after  walking  six  miles  this 
way.’ 

“ ‘ You're  an  obstinate,  hard-hearted  sinner,’  say  he,  ‘ and  it’s 
no  use  in  telling  you.’ 

“‘Telling  me  what?’  says,  I,  for  I was  getting  curious  to 
make  out  what  he  meant. 

“ ‘ Mickey,’  says  he,  changing  his  voice,  and  putting  his  head 
down  close  to  me,  ‘ I saw  your  father  last  night.’ 

“ ‘ The  saints  be  merciful  to  us,’  said  I,  ‘did  ye ?’ 

“ ‘ I did,’  said  he. 

“ ‘ Tare-an-ages,’  says  I,  ‘ did  he  tell  you  what  he  did  with 
the  new  corduroys  he  bought  in  the  fair  ?’ 

“ ‘ Oh,  then,  you  are  a cowld-hearted  creature,’  says  he,  ‘ and 
I’ll  not  lose  time  with  you.’  With  that  he  was  going  to  ride 
away,  when  I took  hold  of  the  bridle. 

“ ‘ Father,  darling,’  says  I,  ‘ God  pardon  me,  but  them  breeches 
is  going  between  me  an’  my  night’s  rest;  but  tell  me  about  my 
father  !’ 

“ ‘ Oh,  then,  he’s  in  a melancholy  state.’ 

“ ‘ Whereabouts  is  he?’  says  I. 

“ ‘ In  purgathory,’  says  he,  ‘ but  he  won’t  be  there  long.’ 

“ ‘ Well,’  says  I,  ‘ that’s  a comfort,  anyhow.’ 

“ ‘ I am  glad  you  think  so,’  says  he;  ‘ but  there’s  more  of  the 
other  opinion.’ 

“ ‘ What’s  that  f says  I. 

“ ‘ That  hell’s  worse.’ 

“ ‘ Oh,  mella  murther,  says  I,  ‘ is  that  it  ?’ 

“ ‘ Ay,  that’s  it.’ 

“ Well,  I was  so  terrified  and  frightened,  I said  nothing  for 
some  time,  but  trotted  along  beside  the  priest’s  horse. 

“ ‘ Father,’  says  I,  ‘ liow  long  will  it  be  before  they  send  him 
where  you  know  ?’ 

“ ‘ It  will  not  be  long  now,’  says  he,  ‘ for  they’re  tired  entirely 
with  him;  they’ve  no  peace  night  nor  day,’  says  he.  ‘ Mickey, 
your  father  is  a mighty  hard  man.’ 

“ ‘True  for  you,  Father  Eoacli,’  nays  I to  myself;  ‘ av  he  had 
only  the  ould  stick  with  the  scythe  in  it,  I wish  them  ioy  of 
his  company.’ 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


69 


“ ‘ Mickey,’  says  he,  ‘ I see  you’re  grieved,  and  I don't  vronder; 
sure  it’s  a great  disgrace  to  a decent  family.’ 

“ ‘ Troth  it  is,’  says  I,  ‘ but  my  father  always  lik^  ^ i?ow  com- 
pany. Could  nothing  be  done  for  him  now.  Father  Roach  ?’ 
says  I,  looking  up  in  the  priest’s  face. 

“ ‘ I’m  greatly  afraid,  Mickey;  he  was  a bad  man,  a very  bad 
man,’ 

“ ‘ And  ye  think  he’ll  go  there?’  says  I. 

“ ‘ Indeed,  Mickey,  I have  my  fears.’ 

^‘‘Upon  my  conscience,’  says  I,  ‘ I believe  youVe  right;  he 
was  always  a restless  crayture.’ 

“ ‘ But  it  doesn’t  depend  on  him,’  says  the  priest,  r^rossly. 

‘‘  ‘ And  then,  who  then?’  says  I. 

“ ‘ Upon  yourself,  Micky  Free,’  says  he;  ‘ God  paraon  you  for 
it,  too.’ 

‘‘  ‘ Upon  me?’  says  L 

‘‘  ‘ Troth,  no  less,’  says  he;  ‘ how  many  masises  were  said  for 
your  father’s  soul  ? — how  many  aves  ? — how  many  paters  ? — an- 
swer me.’ 

‘‘  ‘ Devil  a one  of  me  knows  ! — maybe  twenty.’ 

‘Twenty,  twenty — no,  nor  one.’ 

“ ‘ And  why  not?’  says  I;  ‘ what  for,  wouldn’t  you  be  helping 
a poor  crayture  out  of  trouble,  when  it  wouldn’t  cost  you  more 
nor  a handful  of  prayers  ?’ 

“ ‘Mickey,  I see,’ says  he,  in  a solemn  tone,  ‘you’re  worse 
nor  a hay  then;  but  ye  couldn’t  be  other,  ye  never  come  to  your 
duties.’ 

“‘Well,  Father,’  says  I,  looking  very  penitent,  ‘how  many 
masses  would  get  him  out  ?’ 

“ ‘ Now  you  talk  like  a sensible  man,’  says  he;  ‘ now,  Mickey, 
I’ve  hopes  for  you — let  me  see;  ’ here  he  went  countin’  up  his 
fingers,  and  numberin’  to  himself  for  fiv^e  minutes — ‘ Mickey,’ 
says  he,  ‘ I’ve  a batch  coming  out  on  Tuesday  wxek,  and  if  you 
were  to  make  great  exertions,  perhaps  your  father  could  come 
with  them;  that  is  av  they  made  no  objections.’ 

“ ‘ And  what  for  would  they?'  says  I,  ‘he  was  always  the 
hoith  of  company,  and  av  singing’s  allowed  in  them  parts ’ 

“ ‘ God  forgive  you,  Mickey,  but  yer  in  a benighted  state,’  says 
he,  sighing. 

“ ‘ Weil,’  says  I,  ‘ how’ll  we  get  him  out  on  Tuesday  week  ? for 
that’s  bringing  things  to  a focus.’ 

“ ‘ Two  masses  in  the  mornin’,  fastin’,’  says  Father  Ro..,ch.  half 
loud,  ‘ is  two,  and  two  in  the  afternoon  is  four,  and  two  at  ves- 
pers is  six,’  says  he;  ‘ six  masses  a day  for  nine  days  is  close  by 
sixty  masses — say  sixty,’  says  he,  ‘ and  they'll  cost  you — mind 
Mickey,  aud  don’t  be  telling  it  again — for  it’s  only  to  yourself 
I’d  make  them  so  cheap — a matter  of  three  pounds.’ 

“ ‘Three  pounds,’ says  I,  ‘ begorra  ye  might  as  well  ax  me  tc 
give  you  the  rock  of  Cashel.’ 

“ ‘ I’m  sorry  for  ye,  Mickey,’  says  he,  gatherin’  up  the 
reins  to  ride  off,  ‘ I’m  sorry  for  you;  and  the  day  will  come 
when  the  neglect  of  your  poor  father  will  be  a sore  stroke  agir 
yourself.’ 


CBABLES  SMALLEY. 


“ ‘ Wait  a bit,  your  Reverence,’  says  I,  ‘wait  a bit;  would 
forty  shillings  get  him,  out  ?’ 

“ ‘ Av  course  it  wouldn’t,’  says  he. 

“ ‘Maybe,’  says  I,  coaxing  ‘maybe,  av  you  say  that  his  son 
was  a poor  boy  that  lived  by  his  industry,  and  the  times  was 
bad  ?’ 

“ ‘ Not  the  least  use,’  says  he. 

“ ‘ Arrah,  but  it’s  hard-hearted  they  are,’  thinks  I;  ‘ well,  see 
now.  I’ll  give  you  the  money — but  I can’t  atford  it  all  at  on’st — 
but  I’ll  pay  you  five  shillings  a week — will  that  do  ?’ 

‘ I’ll  do  my  enday  vors,’  said  Father  Roach;  ‘ and  I’ll  speak  to 
them  to  trate  him  peaceably,  in  the  meantime.’ 

“ ‘ Long  life  to  your  Reverence,  and  do.  Well,  here  now,  here’s 
five  hogs  to  begin  with;  and,  musha,  but  I never  thought  I’d  be 
spending  my  loose  change  in  that  a way.’ 

“ Father  Roach  put  the  six  tinpinnies  in  the  pocket  of  his  black 
leather  breeches,  said  something  in  Latin,  bid  me  good-moming, 
and  rode  off. 

“Well,  to  make  my  story  short, M worked  late  and  early  to 
pay  the  five  shillings  a week,  and  I did  do  it  for  three  weeks 
regular;  then  I brought  four  and  fourpence — then  it  came  down 
to  one  and  tenpence  halfpenny — then  ninepence — and,  at  last,  I 
had  nothing  at  all  to  bring. 

“ ‘ Mickey  Free,’  says  the  priest,  ‘ye  must  stir  yourself — your 
father  is  mighty  displeased  at  the  way  you’ve  been  doing  of  late; 
and  av  ye  kept  yer  word,  he’d  been  near  out  by  this  time.’ 

“ ‘Troth,’  says  I,  ‘ it’s  a very  expensive  place.’ 

“ ‘By  coorse  it  is,’  says  he,  ‘sure  all  the  quality  of  the  land’s 
there.  But,  Mickey,  my  man,  with  a litte  exertion,  your  father’s 
business  is  done.  What  are  you  jingling  in  your  pocket  there  ?’ 

“ ‘It’s  ten  shillings,  your  Reverence,  I have  to  buy  seed  pota- 
toes.’ 

“ ‘ Hand  it  here,  my  son.  Isn't  it  better  your  father  be  enjoy- 
ing himself  in  Paradise,  than  ye  were  to  have  ail  the  potatoes  in 
Ireland  ?’ 

“ ‘ And  how  do  ye  know,’  says  I,  ‘ he’s  so  near  out  ?’ 

“ ‘ How  do  I know — how  do  I know — is  it? — didn’t  I see  him?* 

“ ‘ See  him!  tare-an-ages,  was  you  down  there  again?' 

“ ‘ I was,’  says  he,  ‘ I was  down  there  for  three  quarters  of  an 
hour  yesterday  evening,  getting  out  Luke  Kennedy’s  mother — 
decent  people  the  Kennedys — never  spared  expense.” 

“ ‘ And  ye  seen  my  father?’  says  I. 

“ ‘ I did,’  says  he;  ‘he  had  an  ould  flannel  waistcoat  on,  and 
a pipe  sticking  out  of  the  pocket  av  it.” 

“ ‘ That’s  him,’  said  I;  ‘ had  he  a hairy  cap  ?’ 

“ ‘ I didn’t  mind  the  cap,’  says  he,  ‘but  av  coorse  he  wouldn’t 
have  it  on  his  head  in  that  place.’ 

“ ‘ There’s  for  you,’  says  I,  ‘ did  he  speak  to  you?’ 

“ ‘ He  did,’  says  Father  Roach;  ‘ he  spoke  very  hard  about  the 
way  he  was  treated  down  there,  that  they  were  always  jibin’ 
and  jeerin’  him  about  drink  ; and  fightin’,  and  the  courses  he  led 
up  here,  and  that  it  was  a queer  thing,  for  the  matter  of  ten 
shillings,  he  was  to  be  kept  there  so  long.’ 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


61 


ti « Well/  says  I,  taking  ont  ten  shillings  and  counting  it  with 
one  hand,  ‘ we  must  do  our  best  anyhow — and  ye  think  this  ’ill 
get  him  out  surely  ?’ 

“ ‘I  know  it  will,’ says  he;  ‘for  when  Luke’s  mother  was 
leaving  the  place,  yer  father  saw  the  door  open,  he  made  a rush 
at  it,  and,  begorra,  before  it  was  shut  he  got  his  head  and  one 
shoulder  outside  av  it,  so  that,  ye  see,  a trifle  more  ’ill  do  it.’ 

“‘Faix,  and  yer  Reverence,’  says  I,  ‘you’ve  lightened  my 
heart  this  morning,’  and  I put  the  money  back  again  into  my 
pocket. 

“ ‘ Why,  what  do  you  mean?’  says  he,  growing  very  red,  for 
he  was  angry. 

“ Just  this,’  says  I,  ‘that  I’ve  saved  my  money;  for  av  it  was 
my  father  you  seen,  and  he  got  his  head  and  one  shoulder 
outside  the  door,  oh,  then,  by  the  powers,’  says  I,  ‘ the  devil  a 
jailor  jailer  from  hell  to  Connaught  id  hould  him;  so,  Father 
Roach,  I wish  you  the  top  of  the  morning,’  and  I went  away 
laughing;  and  from  that  day  to  this  I never  heard  more  of  pur- 
gathory;  and  ye  see,  Misther  Charles,  I think  I was  right.” 

Scarcely  had  Mike  concluded  when  my  door  was  suddenly 
hurst  open,  and  Sir  Harry  Boyle,  without  assuming  any  of  his 
usual  precautions  respecting  silence  and  quiet,  rushed  into  the 
room.  A broad  grin  upon  his  honest  features,  and  his  eyes 
twinkling  in  a way  that  evidently  showed  me  something  had  oc- 
curred to  amuse  him. 

“ By  Jove,  Charley,  I mustn’t  keep  it  from  you;  it’s  too  good 
a thing  not  to  tell  you;  do  you  remember  that  very  essenced 
young  gentleman  w^ho  accompanied  Sir  George  Dashwood  from 
Dublin,  as  a kind  of  electioneering  friend  ?” 

“ Do  you  mean  Mr.  Pretty  man?” 

“ The  very  man;  he  was,  you  are  aware,  an  under  secretary  in 
some  government  department.  Well,  it  seems  that  he  had  come 
down  among  us  poor  savages,  as  much  from  motives  of  learned 
research  and  scientific  inquiry,  as  though  we  had  been  South 
Sea  Islanders;  report  had  gifted  us,  humble  Galwagians,  with 
some  very  peculiar  traits,  and  this-  gifted  individual  resolved  to 
record  them.  Whether  the  election  week  might  have  sufii<^ed 
his  appetite  for  wonders  I know  not;  but  he  was  peaceably  tak- 
ing his  departure  from  the  west  on  Saturday  last,  when  Phil 
Macnamara  met  him  and  pressed  him  to  dine  that  day  with  a 
few  friends  at  his  house.  You  know  Phil;  so  that  when  I tell 
you,  Sam  Burke,  of  Greenmount,  and  Roger  Doolan  were  of  the 
party,  I need  not  say  that  the  English  traveler  was  not  left  to 
his  own  unassisted  imagination  for  his  facts;  such  anecdotes,  of 
our  habits  and  customs  as  they  crammed  liim  with,  it  would 
appear  never  were  heard  before — nothing  was  too  hot  or  too 
heavy  for  the  luckless  cockney,  who,  \^hen  not  sipping  his  claret, 
was  faithfully  recording  in  his  tablet  the  mems.  for  a very  brill- 
iant and  very  original  work  on  Ireland. 

“ ‘ Fine  country — splendid  country — glorious  people — gifted — 
brave — intelligent — but  not  happy — alas!  Mr.  Macnamara,  not 
happy.  But  we  don’t  know  you,  gentlemen — we  don’t,  indeed^ 

library 

UNIVERSITY  Of  laiKsiis 


CHARLES  tVMALLEY. 


at  the  other  side  of  the  channel;  our  notions  regarding  you  are 
far,  very  far,  from  just.’ 

'‘‘I  hope  and  trust,’ said  old  Burke,  ‘you’ll  help  them  to  a 
better  understanding  ere  long.’ 

“ ‘ Such,  my  dear  sir,  will  be  the  proudest  task  of  my  life — the 
facts  I have  heard  , here  this  evening  have  made  so  profound  an 
impression  upon  me,  that  I burn  for  the  moment  when  I can 
make  them  known  to  the  world  at  large;  to  think — just,  to 
think,  that  a portion  of  this  beautiful  island  should  be  so  stetiped 
in  poverty — that  the  people  not  only  live  upon  the  mere  pota- 
toes, but  are  absolutely  obliged  to  wear  the  skins  for  raiment,  as 
Mr.  Doolan  has  just  mentioned  to  me.’ 

“ ‘ Which  accounts  for  our  cultivation  of  lumpers,’  added  Mr. 
Doolan,  ‘ they  being  the  largest  species  of  the  root,  and  best 
adapted  for  wearing-apparel.’ 

“ ‘ I should  deem  myself  culpable,  indeed  I should,  did  I not 
inform  my  countrymen  upon  the  real  condition  of  this  great 
country.’ 

“ ‘ Why,  after  your  great  opportunities  for  judging,’  said  Phil, 
‘ you  ought  to  speak  out — you’ve  seen  us  in  a way,  I may  fairly 
affirm,  few  Englishmen  have,  and  heard  more.’ 

“ ‘ That's  it;  that’s  the  very  thing,  Mr.  Macnamara;  I’ve  looked 
at  you  more  closely,  I’ve  watched  you  more  narrowly,  I’ve  wit- 
nessed what  the  French  call  your  vie  intimeA 

“‘Begad!  you  have,’  said  old  Burke,  with  a grin,  ‘and  prof- 
ited by  it  to  the  utmost.’ 

‘“I’ve  been  a spectator  of  your  election  contests — I’ve  par- 
taken of  your  hospitality — I’ve  witnessed  your  popular  and 
national  sports — I’ve  been  present  at  your  weddings,  your  fairs, 
your  wakes — but  no,  I was  forgetting,  I never  saw  a wake.’ 

“ ‘ Never  saw  a wake!’  repeated  each  of  the  company  in  turn, 
as  though  the  gentleman  was  uttering  a sentiment  of  very 
dubious  veracity. 

“ ‘ Never,’  said  Mr.  Prettyman,  rather  abashed  at  this  proof  of 
his  incapacity  to  instruct  his  English  friends  upon  all  matters  of 
Irish  interest. 

“ ‘ Well,  then,’  said  Macnamara,  ‘ wdth  a blessing,  we’ll  show 
you  one.  Lord  forbid  that  we  shouldn’t  do  the  honors  of  oui 
poor  country  to  an  intelligent  foreigner,  when  he’s  good  enough 
to  come  amongst  us.’ 

“ ‘Peter,’  said  he,  turning  to  the  servant  behind  him,  ‘ who’s 
dead  hereabouts  ?’ 

“ ‘ Sorra  one,  yer  honor.  Since  the  scrimmage  at  Portuma, 
the  place  is  peaceable.’ 

“ ‘ Who  died  lately  in  the  neighborhood  ?’ 

“ ‘ The  widow  Macbride,  your  honor.’ 

“‘Couldn’t  they  take  her  up  again,  Peter?  My  friend  here 
never  saw  a wake.’ 

“ ‘I’m  afeerd  not;  for  it  was  the  ])oys  roasted  her,  and  she 
wouldn’t  be  a decent  corpse  for  to  show  a stranger,’  said  Peter, 
in  a whisper. 

“Mr.  Prettyman  shuddered  at  these  peaceful  indications  of 
the  neighborhood,  and  said  nothing. 


CHARLES  a M ALLEY. 


63 


*‘Well,  then,  Peter,  tellJemmy  Divine  to  take  the  old  mus- 
ket in  my  bedroom,  and  go  over  to  the  Clenagh  bog;  he  can’t  go 
wrong;  there’s  twelves  families  there  that  never  pay  a half-penny 
rent;  djid.  and  vjJien  if  s done,  let  him  give  notice  to  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  we’ll  have  a rousing  wake.” 

You  don’t  mean,  Mr.  Macnamara — you  don’t  mean  to  say 
that ,’  stammered  out  the  cockney,  with  a face  like  a ghost. 

“ ‘ I only  mean  to  say,’  said  Phil,  laughing,  ‘ that  you’re  keep° 
ing  the  decanter  very  long  at  your  right  hand.” 

“ Burke  contrived  to  interpose  before  the  Englishman  could 
ask  any  explanation  of  what  be  had  just  hoard,  and  for  some 
minutes  he  could  only  wait  in  impatient  anxiety,  when  a loud 
report  of  a gun  close  beside  the  house  attracted  the  attention  of 
the  guests;  the  next  moment  old  Peter  entered,  his  face  radiant 
with  smiles. 

“ ‘ Well,  what’s  that  ? said  Macnamara. 

‘‘  ‘ ’Twas  Jimmy,  yer  honor;  as  the  evening  was  rainy,  he  said 
he’d  take  one  of  the  neighbors,  and  he  hadn't  to  go  far,  for  A ndy 
Moore  was  going  home,  and  he  brought  him  down  at  once.’ 

“ ‘ Did  he  shoot  him?’  said  Mr.  Pretty  man,  while  cold  per- 
spiration broke  over  his  forehead.  ‘ Did  he  murder  the  man  ?’ 

“ ‘Sorra  murder,’  said  Peter,  disdainfully;  ‘but  why  wouldn’t 
he  shoot  him  when  the  master  bid  him  ?’ 

“ I ne€>dn't  tell  you  more,  Charley;  but  in  ten  minutes  after, 
feigning  some  excuse  to  leave  the  room,  the  terrified  cockney 
took  flight,  and  offering  twenty  guineas  for  a horse  to  convey 
him  to  Athlone,  he  left  Galway,  fully  convinced  ‘that  they 
don’t  yet  know  us  on  the  other  side  of  the  channel.’  ” 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  JOURNEY. 

The  election  concluded — the  turmoil  and  excitement  of  the 
contest  over — all  was  fast  resuming  its  accustomed  routine 
around  us,  when  one  morning  my  uncle  informed  me  that  I was 
at  length  to  leave  my  native  county,  and  enter  upon  the  great 
world  as  a student  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  Although  long 
since  in  expectation  of  this  eventful  change,  it  was  with  no 
slight  feeling  of  emotion  I contemplated  the  step,  which,  remov- 
ing me  at  once  from  all  my  early  friends  and  associations,  was  to 
surround  me  with  new  companions  and  new  influences,  and 
place  before  me  very  different  objects  of  ambition  from  those  I 
had  hitherto  been  regarding. 

My  destiny  had  been  long  ago  decided;  the  army  had  had  its 
share  of  the  family,  who  brought  little  more  back  with  them 
from  the  wars  than  a short  allowance  of  members  and  shattered 
constitutions;  the  navy  had  proved,  on  more  than  one  occasion, 
that  the  fate  of  the  O’Malley’s  did  not  incline  to  hanging,  so  that, 
in  Irish  estimation,  but  one  alternative  remained,  and  that  was 
the  bar.  Besides,  as  my  uncle  remarked  with  great  truth  and  fore- 
sight: “ Charley  will  be  tolerably  independent  of  the  public,  at  all 
events;  for,  even  if  they  never  send  him  a brief,  there’s  law 
enough  in  the  family  to  last  Ms  time  ” — a rather  novel  reason, 


64 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


by  the  bye,  for  making  a man  a lawyer,  and  which  induced  Sir 
Harry,  with  his  usual  clearness,  to  observe  to  me: 

“ Upon  my  conscience,  boy,  you  are  in  luck;  if  there  had  been 
a Bible  in  the  house,  I firmly  believe  he’d  have  made  you  a 
parson.” 

Considine  alone,  of  all  my  uncle’s  advisers,  did  not  concur  in 
this  determination  respecting  me.  He  set  forth,  with  an  elo- 
quence that  certainly  converted  me,  that  my  head  was  better 
calculated  for  bearing  hard  knocks  than  unraveling  knotty 
points;  that  a shacko  would  become  it  infinitely  better  than  a 
wig;  and  declared  roundly,  that  a boy  who  began  so  well,  and 
had  such  very  pretty  notions  about  shooting,  was  positively 
thrown  away  in  the  Four  Courts.  My  uncle,  however,  was 
firm;  and  as  old  Sir  Harry  supported  him,  the  day  was  decided 
against  us,  Considine  murmuring,  as  he  left  the  room,  some- 
thing that  did  not  seem  quite  a brilliant  anticipation  of  the  suc= 
cess  awaiting  me  in  my  legal  career.  As  for  myself,  though 
only  a silent  spectator  of  the  debate,  all  my  wishes  were  with 
the  Count.  From  my  earliest  boyhood  a military  life  had  been 
my  strongest  desire;  the  roll  of  the  drum,  and  the  shrill  fife  that 
played  through  the  little  village,  with  its  ragged  troops  of 
recruits  following,  had  charms  for  me  I cannot  describe;  and, 
had  a choice  been  allowed  me,  I would  infinitely  rather  have 
been  a sergeant  in  the  dragoons  than  one  of  his  Majesty’s  learned 
in  the  law.  If,  then,  such  had  been  the  cherished  feeling  of 
many  a year,  how  much  more  strongly  were  my  aspirations 
heightened  by  the  events  of  the  last  few  days!  The  tone  of 
superiority  I had  witnessed  in  Hammersly,  whose  conduct  to  me 
at  parting  had  placed  him  high  in  my  esteem — the  quiet  con- 
tempt of  civilians,  implied  in  a thousand  sly  ways — the  exalted 
estimate  of  his  own  profession,  at  once  wounded  my  pride  and 
stimulated  my  ambition;  and,  lastly,  more  than  all,  the  avowed 
preference  that  Lucy  Dash  wood  evinced  for  a military  life,  were 
stronger  allies  than  my  own  conviction  needed,  to  make  me 
long  for  the  army.  So  completely  did  the  thought  possess  me, 
that  I felt,  if  I were  not  a soldier,  I cared  not  what  became  of 
me.  Life  had  no  other  object  of  ambition  for  me  than  military 
renown,  no  other  success  for  which  I cared  to  struggle,  or 
would  value  when  obtained.  Aut  CcBsar  aut  nullus,  thought  I; 
and,  when  my  uncle  determined  I should  be  a lawyer,  I neither 
murmured  nor  objected,  but  hugged  myself  in  the  prophecy  of 
Considine,  that  hinted  pretty  broadly,  ‘‘the  devil  a stupider 
fellow  ever  opened  a brief;  but  he’d  have  made  a slashing  light 
dragoon.” 

The  preliminaries  were  not  long  in  arranging.  It  was  settled 
that  I should  be  immediately  dispatched  to  Dublin,  to  the  care 
of  Dr.  Mooney,  then  a junior  Fellow  in  the  University,  who 
would  take  me  into  his  especial  charge;  while  Sir  Harry  was  to 
furnish  me  with  a letter  to  his  old  friend.  Dr.  Ban-et,  whose  ad- 
vice and  assistance  he  estimated  at  a very  high  price.  Provided 
with  such  documents,  I was  informed  that  the  gates  of  knowl- 
edge were  more  than  half  ajar  for  me,  without  an  effort  upon 
my  part.  One  only  portion  of  all  the  arrangements  I heard  with 


CHARLES  C MALLET. 


65 


anything  like  pleasure;  it  was  decided  that  my  man  Mickey  was 
to  accompany  me  to  Dublin,  and  remain  with  me  during  my 
grtay. 

It  was  upon  a clear,  sharp  morning  in  January,  of  the  year 
18 — , that  I took  my  place  upon  the  box-seat  of  the  old  Galway 
Mail,  and  set  out  on  my  journey.  My  heart  was  depressed,  and 
my  spirits  were  miserably  low.  I had  all  that  feeling  of  sadness 
which  leave-taking  inspires,  and  no  sustaining  prospect  to  cheer 
me  in  the  distance.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I had  seen  a 
tear  glisten  in  my  poor  uncle’s  eye,  and  heard  his  voice  falter  as 
he  said  “farewell!”  Notwithstanding  the  difference  of  age,  we 
had  been  perfectly  companions  together;  and  as  I thought  now 
over  all  the  thousand  kindnesses  and  affectionate  instances  of 
his  love  I had  received,  my  heart  gave  way,  and  the  tears 
coursed  slowl}^  down  my  cheeks.  I turned  to  give  one  last  look 
at  the  tall  chimneys  and  the  old  woods,  my  earliest  friends;  but 
a turn  of  the  road  had  shut  out  the  prospect,  and  thus  I took  my 
leave  of  Galway. 

My  friend  Mickey,  who^at  behind  with  the  guard,  participated 
but  little  in  my  feelings  of  regret.  The  potatoes  in  the  metropo- 
lis could  scarcely  be  as  wet  as  the  lumpers  in  Scariff ; he  had 
heard  that  whisky  was  not  dearer,  and  looked  forward  to  the 
other  delights  of  the  capital  with  a longing  heart.  Meanwhile, 
resolved  that  no  portion  of  his  career  should  be  lost,  he  was 
lightening  the  road  by  anecdote  and  song,  and  had  an  audience 
of  four  people,  a very  crusty  looking  old  guard  included,  in 
roars  of  laughter.  Mike  had  contrived,  with  his  usual  savoir 
faire^  to  make  himself  very  agreeable  to  an  extremely  pretty- 
looking country-girl,  around  whose  waist  he  had  most  lovingly 
passed  his  arm,  under  pretense  of  keeping  her  from  falling,  and 
to  whom,  in  the  midst  of  all  his  attentions  to  the  party  at  large, 
he  devoted  himself  considerably,  pressing  his  suit  with  all  the 
aid  of  his  native  minstrelsy. 

“ Hould  me  tight.  Miss  Matilda,  dear.” 

‘‘  My  name’s  Mary  Brady,  av  ye  plase.” 

“ Ay,  and  I do  plass. 

“ Oh,  Mary  Brady,  you  are  my  darlin’. 

Ye  are  my  looking-glass,  from  night  till  morning; 

I’d  rather  have  ye  without  one  farthen. 

Nor  Shusey  Gallagher  and  her  house  and  garden. 

“ May  I never  av  T wouldn't  then,  and  ye  needn’t  be  laughing.'* 

“ Is  his  honor  at  home?” 

This  speech  was  addressed  to  a gaping  country  fellow,  that 
leaned  on  his  spade  to  see  the  coach  pass. 

“ Is  his  honor  at  home?  I’ve  something  for  him  from  Mr. 
Davern.” 

Mickey  well  knew  that  few  western  gentlemen  were  without 
constant  intercourse  with  the  Athlone  attorney.  The  poor  coun- 
tryman accordingly  hastened  through  the  fence,  and  pursued 
the  coach  with  all  speed  for  above  a mile,  Mike  pretending  all 
the  time  to  be  in  the  greatest  anxiety  for  his  overtaking  them; 
until  at  last,  as  he  stopped  in  despair,  a hearty  roar  of  laughter 
told  him  that^  in  Mickey ’s  parZancc,  he  was  “ sould,” 


08  CHARLES  O^MALLET. 

Taste  it,  my  dear;  devil  a harm  it’ll  do  ye;  it  never  paid  the 
king’s  sixpence.” 

Here  he  filled  a little  horn  vessel  from  a black  bottle  he 
carried,  accompanying  the  action  with  a song,  the  air  to  which, 
if  any  of  my  readers  feel  disposed  to  sing  it,  I may  observe 
bore  a resemblance  to  the  well-known,  “ A fig  for  St.  Denis  of 
France:” 

“ POTTEEN,  GOOD  LUCK  TO  YE,  DEAR.’' 

“ Av  I was  a monarch  in  state, 

Like  Romulus  or  J ulius  Caysar, 

With  the  best  of  fine  victuals  to  eat 
And  drink,  like  great  Nebuchadnezzar; 

A rasher  of  bacon  I’d  have, 

And  potatoes  the  finest  was  seen,  sir; 

And  for  drink,  it’s  no  claret  I’d  crave, 

But  a keg  of  ould  Mullens’  potteen,  sir, 

With  the  smell  of  the  smoke  on  it  still. 

“ They  talk  of  the  Romans  of  ould, 

Whom  they  say  in  their  own  times  were  frisky; 

But,  trust  me,  to  keep  out  the  cowld, 

The  Romans  at  home  here  like  whisky. 

Sure  it  warms  both  the  head  and  the  heart, 

It’s  the  soul  of  all  readin’  and  writin’, 

It  teaches  both  science  and  art, 

And  disposes  for  love  or  for  fightin.’ 

Oh,  potteen,  good  luck  to  ye,  dear.” 

This  very  classic  production,  and  the  black  bottle  which  ac- 
companied it,  completely  established  the  singer’s  pre-eminence 
in  the  company;  and  I heard  sundry  sounds  resembling  drinking, 
with  frequent  good  wishes  to  the  provider  of  the  feast.  “ Long 
life  to  ye,  Mr.  Free,”  “ Your  health  and  inclinations,  Mr.  Free,” 
&c.;  to  v'hich  Mr.  Free  responded,  by  drinking  those  of  the 
company,  ‘‘av  they  were  vartuous.”  The  amicable  relations 
thus  happily  established,  promised  a very  lasting  reign,  and 
would,  doubtless,  have  eujoyed  such,  had  not  a slight  incident 
occurred,  which  for  a brief  season  interrupted  them.  At  the 
village  where  we  stopped  to  breakfast,  three  very  venerable 
figures  presented  themselves  for  places  in  the  inside  of  the  coach; 
they  were  habited  in  black,  coats,  breeches,  and  gaiters,  wore 
hats  of  a very  ecclesiastical  breadth  in  their  brim,  and  had  alto- 
gether the  peculiar  air  and  bearing  which  distinguishes  their 
calling,  being  no  less  than  three  Roman  Catholic  prelates  on 
their  way  to  Dublin  to  attend  a convocation.  While  Mickey  and 
his  friends,  with  the  ready  tact  which  every  low  Irishman  pos- 
sesses, immediately  perceived  who  and  what  these  worshipful 
individuals  were,  another  traveler,  who  had  just  assumed  his 
place  on  the  outside,  participated  but  little  in  the  feelings  of 
reverence  so  manifestly  displayed,  but  gave  a sneer  of  a very 
ominous  kind,  as  the  skirt  of  the  last  black  coat  disappeared 
within  the  coach. 

This  latter  individual  was  a short,  thick-set  bandy-legged 
man,  of  about  fifty,  with  an  enormous  nose,  which,  whatever  its 
habitual  coloring,  on  the  morning  in  question  was  of  a brilliant 


CHARLES  OMALLEY, 


67 


purple.  He  wore  a blue  coat,  with  bright  buttons,  upon  which 
some  letters  were  inscribed,  and  around  his  neck  was  fastened 
a ribbon  of  the  same  color,  to  which  a medal  was  attached. 
This  he  displayed  with  something  of  ostentation,  whenever  an 
opportunity  occurred,  and  seemed  altogether  a person  who  pos- 
sessed a most  satisfactory  impression  of  his  own  importance. 
In  fact,  had  not  this  feeling  been  participated  in  by  others,  Mr. 
Billy  Crow  would  never  have  been  deputed  by  No.  13,476  to 
carry  their  warrant  down  to  the  west  country,  and  establish 
the  nucleus  of  an  Orange  Lodge  in  the  town  of  Foxleigh;  such 
being,  in  brief,  the  reason  why  he,  a very  well  known  manu- 
facturer of leather  continuations  ” in  Dublin,  had  ventured 
upon  the  perilous  journey  from  which  he  was  now  returning. 
Billy  was  going  on  his  way  to  town  rejoicing  for  he  had  had  a 
most  brilliant  success;  the  brethren  had  feasted  and  feted  him; 
he  had  made  several  splendid  orations,  with  the  usual  number 
of  prophecies  about  the  speedy  downfall  of  Romanism;  the  in- 
evitable return  of  Protestant  ascendency;  the  pleasing  prospect 
that,  with  increased  effort  and  improved  organization,  they 
should  soon  be  able  to  have  everything  their  own  way,  and 
clear  the  green  isle  of  the  horrible  vermin  St.  Patrick  forgot, 
when  banishing  the  others;  and  that,  if  Daniel  O’Connell  (who 
might  the  Lord  confound)  could  only  be  hanged,  and  Sir  Har- 
court  Lees  made  primate  of  all  Ireland,  there  were  still  some 
hopes  of  peace  and  prosperity  to  the  country. 

Mr.  Crow  had  no  sooner  assumed  his  place  upon  the  coach 
than  he  saw  that  he  was  in  the  camp  of  the  enemy.  Happily 
for  all  parties,  indeed,  in  Ireland,  political  differences  have  so 
completely  stamped  the  externals  of  each  party,  that  he  must 
be  a man  of  small  penetration  who  cannot  in  the  first  five  min- 
utes he  is  thrown  among  strangers,  calculate  with  considerable 
certainty,  whether  it  will  be  more  conducive  to  his  happiness  to 
sing  “Croppies,  lie  down,”  or  “The  Battle  of  Ross.”  As  for 
Billy  Crow,  long  life  to  him,  you  might  as  well  attempt  to  pass 
a turkey  upon  M.  Audubon  for  a giraffe  as  endeavor  to  impose 
a papist  upon  him  for  a true  follower  of  King  William.  He 
could  have  given  you  more  generic  distinctions  to  guide  you  in 
the  decision  than  ever  did  Cuvier  to  designate,  an  antedeluvian 
mammoth;  so  that  no  sooner  had  he  seated  himself  upon  the 
coach,  than  he  buttoned  up  his  great-coat,  stuck  his  hands 
firmly  in  his  side  pockets,  pursed  up  his  lips,  and  looked  alto- 
gether like  a man  that,  feeling  himself  out  of  his  element,  re- 
solves to  “bide  his  time”  in  patience,  until  chance  may  throw 
him  among  more  congenial  associates.  Mickey  Free,  who  was 
himself  no  mean  proficient  in  reading  a character,  at  one  glance 
saw  his  man,  and  began  hammering  his  brains  to  see  if  he  could 
not  overreach  him.  The  small  portmanteau  which  contained 
Billy’s  wardrobe  bore  the  conspicuous  announcement  of  his 
name:  and  as  Mickey  could  read,  this  was  one  important  step 
already  gained. 

He  accordingly  took  the  first  opportunity  of  seating  himself 
beside  him,  and  opened  the  conversation  by  some  very  polite 
observation  upon  the  other’s  wearing  apparel,  which  is  always, 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


in  the  west,  considered  a piece  of  very  courteous  attention.  By 
degrees  the  dialogue  prospered,  and  Mickey  began  to  make  some 
very  important  revelations  about  himself  and  his  master,  inti- 
mating that  the  “ state  of  the  country  ” was  such  that  a man  of 
his  way  of  thinking  had  no  peace  or  quiet  in  it. 

‘‘That’s  him  there,  foment  ye,”  said  Mickey,  “and  abetter 
Protestant  never  hated  mass.  Ye  understand  ?” 

“ What!”  said  Billy,  unbuttoning  the  collar  of  his  coat,  to  get 
a fairer  view  at  his  companion;  “ why,  I thought  you  were ” 

Here  he  made  some  resemblance  of  the  usual  manner  of  bless- 
ing one’s  self. 

“ Me,  devil  a more  nor  yourself,  Mr.  Crow.” 

“ Why,  do  you  know  me  too  ?’ 

“ Troth,  more  knows  you  than  you  think.” 

Billy  looked  very  much  puzzled  at  all  this;  at  last  he  said: 

“ And  ye  tell  me  that  your  master  there’s  the  right  sort  ?” 

“ Thrue  blue,”  said  Mike,  with  a wink,  “and  so  is  his  uncles.” 

“ And  where  are  they,  when  they  are  at  home?” 

“ In  Galway,  no  less  ; but  they’re  here  now.” 

“ Where  ?” 

“ Here.” 

At  these  words  he  gave  a knock  of  his  heels  to  the  coach,  as 
if  to  intimate  their  “ whereabouts.” 

“You  don’t  mean  in  the  coach — do  ye  ?” 

“ To  be  sure,  I do;  and  troth  you  can’t  know  much  of  the  west, 
av  ye  don’t  know  the  three  Mr.  Trenchers  of  Tallybash!  them’s 
they  ” 

“ 1 ou  don’t  say  so!” 

“ Faix,  but  I do.” 

“ May  I never  drink  the  12th  of  July,  if  I didn’t  think  they 
were  priests.” 

“ Priests!”  said  Mickey,  in  a roar  of  laughter,  “ priests!” 

“ Just  priests.” 

“ Begorra,  though,  ye  had  better  keep  that  to  yourself;  for 
they’re  not  the  men  to  have  that  same  said  to  them.” 

“ Of  course  I wouldn’t  offend  them,”  said  Mr.  Crow;  “faith, 
it’s  not  me  would  cast  reflections  Upon  such  real  out-and-outers 
as  they  are.  And  where  are  they  going  now  ?” 

“ To  Dublin  straight;  there’s  to  be  a grand  lodge  next  week; 
but  sure  Mr.  Crow  knows  better  than  me.” 

Billy  after  this  became  silent.  A moody  revery  seemed  to 
steal  over  him,  and  he  was  evidently  displeased  with  himself  for 
his  want  of  tact  in  not  discovering  the  three  Mr.  Trenchers  of 
Tallybash,  though  he  only  caught  sight  of  their  backs. 

Mickey  Free  interrupted  not  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  he 
saw  conviction  was  slowly  working  its  way,  but,  by  gently 
humming,  in  an  undertone,  the  loyal  melody  of  “ Croppies  lie 
down,”  fanned  the  flame  he  had  so  dexterously  kindled.  At 
length  they  reached  the  small  town  of  Kinnegad.  While  the 
coach  changed  horses,  Mr.  Crow  lost  not  a moment  in  descend- 
ing from  the  top,  and,  rushing  into  the  little  inn,  disappeared 
for  a few  moments.  When  he  again  issued  forth,  he  carried  a 
smoking  tumbler  of  whisky  punch,  which  he  continued  to  stir 


CHARLES  O’MALLEY. 


69 


with  a spoon.  As  he  approached  the  coach  door,  he  tapped 
gently  with  his  knuckles,  upon  which  the  reverend  prelate  of 
Maronia,  or  Mesopotamia,  I forget  which,  inquired  what  he 
wanted. 

“I  ask  your  pardon,  gentlemen,”  said  Billy;  ‘‘but  I thought 
I’d  make  bold  to  ax  you  to  taste  something  warm  this  cold 
day.” 

“Many  thanks,  my  good  friend;  but  we  never  do,”  said  a 
bland  voice  from  within. 

“I  understand,”  said  Billy,  with  a sly  wunk;  “but  there  are 
circumstances  now  and  then — and  one  might  for  the  honor  of 
the  cause,  you  know.  Just  put  it  to  your  lips,  won’t  you  ?” 

“Excuse  me,”  said  a very  rose-cheeked  little  prelate;  “but 
nothing  stronger  than  water.” 

“Botheration!”  thought  Billy,  as  he  regarded  the  speaker’s 
nose.  “ But  I thought,”  said  he  aloud,  “ that  you  would  not  re- 
fuse this.” 

Here  be  made  a peculiar  manifestation  in  the  air,  which, 
Whatever  respect  and  reference  it  might  carry  to  the  honest 
brethren  or  13,476,  seemed  only  to  increase  the  wonder  and  as- 
tonishment of  the  bishops. 

“ What  does  he  mean  ?’*  said  one. 

“ Is  he  mad  ?”  said  another. 

“ Tare-an-ages!”  said  Mr.  Crow,  getting  quite  impatient  at 
the  slowness  of  his  friends’  perception — “tare-an-ages!  I’m  one 
of  youselves.” 

“One  of  us,”  said  the  three  in  chorus,  “ one  of  us  ?” 

“ Ay,  to  be  sure,”  here  he  took  a long  pull  at  the  punch;  “ to 
be  sure  I am;  here’s  ‘no  surrender,’. your  souls!  whoop” — a 
loud  yell  accompanying  the  toast  as  lie  drank  it. 

“ Do  you  mean  to  insult  us?”  said  Father  P . “ Guard,  take 

this  fellow.” 

“Are  we  to  be  outraged  in  this  manner?”  chorused  the 
priests. 

“‘July  the  First,  in  Oldbridge  town,”’  sung  Billy,  “and 
here  it  is  ‘the  glor’ous,  pious,  and  immortal  memory  of  the 
great  and  good 

“ Guard!  where  is  the  guard  ?” 

“ ‘ And  good  King  William,  that  saved  us  from  popery  ’ ” 

“ Coachman!  guard!”  screamed  Father  P . 

“ ‘ Brass  money  ’ ” 

“ Policemen!  policemen!”  shouted  the  priests. 

“ ‘ Brass  money  and  wooden  shoes;’  devil  may  care  who  hears 
me,”  said  Billy,  who,  supposing  that  the  three  Mr.  Trenchers 
were  skulking  the  avowal  of  their  principles,  resolved  to  assert 
the  pre-eminence  of  the  great  cause,  single-handed  and  alone. 

“ ‘ Here’s  the  Pope  in  the  pillory,  and  the  devil  pelting  him 
wdth  priests.’  ” 

At  these  words  a kick  from  behind  apprized  the  royal  cham- 
pion that  a very  ragged  auditory,  who,  for  some  time  past,  had 
not  well  understood  the  gist  of  his  eloquence,  had  at  length  com- 
prehended enough  to  be  angry.  Ce  rCest  que  le  premier  pas  qui 
coute^  certainly,  in  an  Irish  row,  “ The  merest  urchin  may  light 


70 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


the  train;  one  handful  of  mud  often  ignites  a shindy  that 
ends  in  a most  bloody  battle;”  and  here,  no  sooner  did  the  vis  a 
tergo  impel  Billy  forward  than  a severe  rap  of  a closed  fist  in  the 
eye  drove  him  back;  and  in  one  instant  he  became  the  center  to 
a periphery  of  kicks,  cuffs,  pullings,  and  haulings,  that  left  the 
poor  deputy  grand  not  only  orange,  but  blue. 

He  fought  manfully,  but  numbers  carried  the  day;  and,  when 
the  coach  drove  off,  which  it  did  at  last  without  him,  the  last 
thing  visible  to  the  outside  was  the  figure  of  Mr,  Crow,  whose 
hat,  minus  the  crown,  had  been  driven  over  his  head,  down  upon 
his  neck,  where  it  remained  like  a dress  cravat,  buffeting  a mob 
of  ragged  vagabonds,  who  had  so  completely  metamorphosed 
the  unfortunate  man  with  mud  and  bruises  that  a committee  of 
the  grand  lodge  might  actually  have  been  unable  to  identify 
him. 

As  for  Mickey  and  his  friends  behind,  their  mirth  knew  no 
bounds;  and  except  the  respectable  insides,  there  was  not  an  in- 
dividual about  the  coach  who  ceased  to  think  of,  and  laugh  at 
the  incident,  till  we  arrived  in  Dublin,  and  drew  up  at  the 
Hibernian,  in  Dawson  street. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

DUBLIN. 

No  sooner  had  I arrived  in  Dublin  than  my  first  care  was  to 
present  myself  to  Dr.  Mooney,  by  whom  I was  received  in  the 
most  cordial  manner.  In  .fact,  in  my  utter  ignorance  of  such 
persons  I had  imagined  a College-fellow  to  be  a character  neces- 
sarily severe  and  unbending:  and,  as  the  only  two  very  great 
people  I had  ever  seen  in  my  life  were  the  Archbishop  of  Tuam, 
and  the  Chief  Baron  when  on  circuit,  I pictured  to  myself  that  a 
University-fellow  was,  in  all  probability,  a cross  between  the 
two,  and  feared  him  accordingly. 

The  Doctor  read  over  my  uncle’s  letter  attentively,  invited  me 
to  partake  of  his  breakfast,  and  then  entered  upon  something 
like  an  account  of  the  life  before  me,  for  which  Sir  Harry  Boyle 
had,  however,  in  some  degree  prepared  me. 

“ Your  uncle,  I find,  wishes  you  to  live  in  college;  perhaps  it 
is  better,  too;  so  that  I must  look  out  for  chambers  for  you.  Let 
me  see;  it  will  be  rather  difficult,  just  now,  to  find  them.”  Here 
he  fell  for  some  moments  into  a musing  fit,  and  merely  muttered 
a few  broken  sentences,  as,  “To  be  sure,  if  other  chambers 
could  be  had — but  then — and,  after  all,  perhaps,  as  he  is  young 
— besides,  Frank  will  certainly  be  expelled  before  long,  and  then 
he  will  have  them  all  to  himself.  I say,  O’Malley,  I believe  I 
must  quarter  you  for  the  present  with  a rather  wild  companion; 
but,  as  your  uncle  says  you  are  a prudent  fellow  ” — here  he 
smiled  very  much,  as  if  my  uncle  had  not  said  any  such  thing 
— “why  you  must  only  take  the  better  care  of  yourself  until  we  can 
make  some  better  arrangement.  My  pupil,  Frank  Webber,  is  at 
this  moment  in  want  of  a ‘ chum,’  as  the  phrase  is;  his  last  three 
having  only  been  domesticated  with  him  for  as  many  weeks;  so 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY.  I'l 

that,  until  we  find  you  a more  quiet  resting-place,  you  may  take 
up  your  abode  with  him.” 

During  breakfast,  the  Doctor  proceeded  to  inform  me  that  my 
destined  companion  was  a young  man  of  excellent  family  and 
good  fortune,  who,  with  very  considerable  talents  and  acquire- 
ments, preferred  a life  of  rackety  and  careless  dissipation  to 
prospects  of  great  success  in  public  life,  which  his  connection 
and  family  might  have  secured  for  him;  that  he  had  been  orig- 
inally entered  at  Oxford,  which  he  was  obliged  to  leave;  then 
tried  Cambridge,  from  which  he  escaped  expulsion  by  being  rus- 
ticated, that  is,  having  incurred  a sentence  of  temporary  banish- 
ment; and,  lastly,  was  endeavoring,  with  what  he  himself  be- 
lieved to  be  a total  reformation,  to  stumble  on  to  a degree  in  the 
“ silent  sister.” 

“ This  is  his  third  year,”  said  the  Doctor,  “ and  he  is  only  a 
freshman,  having  lost  every  examination,  v/ith  abilities  enough 
to  sweep  the  university  of  its  prizes.  But,  come  over,  now,  and 
ITl  present  you  to  him.” 

I followed  him  dowm-stairs,  across  the  court,  to  an  angle  of 
the  old  square;  where  up  to  the  first  floor,  left,  to  use  the  college 
direction,  stood  the  name  of  Mr.  Webber,  a large  No.  2 being 
conspicuously  painted  in  the  middle  of  the  door,  and  not  over  it, 
as  is  usually  the  custom.  As  we  reached  the  spot,  the  observa- 
tions of  my  companion  were  lost  to  me,  in  the  tremendous  noise 
and  uproar  that  resounded  from  within.  It  seemed  as  if  a number 
of  people  were  fighting,  pretty  much  as  a banditti  in  a melo- 
drama do,  with  considerably  more  of  confusion  than  requisite; 
a fiddle  and  a French  horn  also  lent  their  assistance  to  shouts 
and  cries,  which,  to  say  the  best,  were  not  exactly  the  aids  to 
study  I expected  in  such  a place. 

Three  times  was  the  bell  pulled,  with  a vigor  that  threatened 
its  downfall,  when,  at  last,  as  the  jingle  of  it  rose  above  all  other 
noises,  suddenly  all  became  hushed  and  still;  a momentary  pause 
succeeded,  and  the  door  was  opened  by  a very  respectable-looking 
servant,  who,  recognizing  the  Doctor,  at  once  introduced  us  into 
the  apartment  where  Mr.  Webber  was  sitting. 

In  a large  and  very  handsomely  furnished  room,  where  Brus-' 
sels  carpeting  and  softly  cushioned  sofas  contrasted  strangely^ 
with  the  meager  and  comfortless  chambers  of  the  Doctor,  sat  a 
young  man  at  a small  breakfast  table,  beside  the  fire.  He  was  f 
attired  in  a silk  dressing-gown  and  black  velvet  slippers,  and 
supported  his  forehead  upon  a hand  of  almost  lady-like  white- 
ness, whose  fingers  were  absolutely  covered  with  rings  of  great 
beauty  and  price.  His  long,  silky  brown  hair  fell  in  rich  pro- 
fusion upon  the  back  of  his  neck  and  over  his  arm;  and  the 
whole  air  and  attitude  was  one  which  a painter  might  have 
copied.  So  intent  was  he  upon  the  volume  before  him,  that  he 
never  raised  his  head  at.  our  approach,  but  continued  to  read 
aloud,  totally  unaware  of  our  presence. 

‘‘  Dr.  Mooney,  sir,”  said  the  servant. 

“ Ton  dapamey  hominos,  prosephe,  crione,  Agamemnon^  re- 
peated the  student  in  an  ecstasy,  and  not  paying  the  slightest 
attention  to  the  announcementc 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


“Dr.  Mooney,  sir,”  repeated  the  servant  in  a louder  tone, 
while  the  Doctor  looked  around  on  every  side  for  an  explanation 
of  the  late  uproar,  with  a face  of  the  most  puzzled  astonish- 
ment. 

“Be  dakiownpara  thina  dolekoskion  enkos^^^  said  Mr.  Webber, 
finishing  a cup  of  coffee  at  a draught. 

“ Well,  Webber,  hard  at  work,  I see,”  said  the  Doctor. 

“ Ah,  Doctor,  I beg  pardon!  Have  you  been  long  here  ?”  said 
the  most  soft  and  insinuating  voice,  while  tlie  speaker  parsed 
his  taper  fingers  across  his  brow,  as  if  to  dissipate  the  traces  of 
deep  thought  and  study. 

While  the  Doctor  presented  me  to  my  future  companion,  I 
could  perceive  in  the  restless  and  searching  look  he  threw 
around,  that  the  fracas  he  had  so  lately  heard  was  still  an  unex- 
plained and  vexata  questio  in  his  mind. 

“May  I offer  you  a cup  of  coffee,  Mr.  O’Malley?”  said  the 
youth,  with  an  air  of  almost  timid  bashfulness.  ‘ ‘ The  Doctor,  I 
know,  breakfasts  at  a very  early  hour.” 

“I  say,  Webber,”  said  the  Doctor,  who  could  no  longer  re- 
strain his  curiosity,  “ what  an  awful  row  I heard  here  as  I came 
up  to  the  door.  I thought  Bedlam  was  broke  loose.  What 
could  it  have  been  ?” 

“Ah,  you  heard  it,  too,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Webber,  smiling  most 
benignly. 

“ Heard  it!  to  be  sure  I did.  O’Malley  and  I could  not  hear 
ourselves  talking  with  the  uproar.” 

“Yes,  indeed,  it  is  very  provoking;  but,  then,  what’s  to  be 
done  ? One  can’t  complain,  under  the  circumstances.” 

“ Why,  what  do  you  mean?”  said  Mooney,  anxiously. 

“Nothing,  sir;  nothing.  I’d  much  rather  you’d  not  ask  me; 
for,  after  all.  I’ll  change  my  chambers.” 

“ But  why  ? Explain  this  at  once.  I insist  upon  it.” 

“Can  I depend  upon  the  discretion  of  your  young  friend?” 
said  Mr.  Webber,  gravely. 

“Perfectly,”  said  the  Doctor,  now  wound  up  to  the  greatest 
anxiety  to  learn  a secret. 

“ And  you’ll  promise  not  to  mention  the  thing  except  among 
your  friends.” 

“ I do,”  said  the  Doctor. 

“Well,  then,”  said  he,  in  a low  and  confident  whisper,  “it’s 
the  Dean.” 

“ The  Dean,”  said  Mooney,  with  a start.  “The  Dean!  Why, 
how  can  it  be  the  Dean  ?” 

“Too  true,”  said  Mr.  Webber,  making  a sign  of  drinking; 
“too  true.  Doctor.  And  then,  the  moment  he  is  so,  he  begins 
smashing  the  furniture.  Never  was  anything  heard  like  it.  As 
for  me,  as  I am  now  becoming  a reading  man,  I must  go  else- 
where.” 

Now,  it  so  chanced  that  the  worthy  Dean,  who,  albeit  a man 
of  mo!3t  abstemious  habits,  possessed  a nose  which,  in  color  and 
development,  was  a most  unfortunate  witness  to  call  to  charac- 
ter, and  as  Mooney  heard  Webber  narrate  circumstantially  the 


CHABLES  O^MALLEY.  73 

frightful  excesses  of  the  great  functionary,  I saw  that  something 
like  conviction  was  stealing  over  him. 

“ You’ll,  of  course,  never  speak  of  this,  except  to  your  most 
intimate  friends?”  said  Webber. 

“ Of  course  not,”  said  the  Doctor^  as  he  shook  his  hand  warm- 
ly, and  prepared  to  leave  the  room.  O’Malley,  I leave  you 
here,”  said  he;  “ Webber  and  you  can  talk  over  your  arrange- 
ments.” 

Webber  followed  the  Doctor  to  the  door,  whispered  something 
in  his  ear,  to  which  the  other  replied:  “ Very  well,  I will  write; 

but  if  your  father  sends  the  money,  I must  insist ” the  rest 

was  lost  in  protestations  and  professions  of  the  most  fervent 
kind,  amid  which  the  door  was  shut,  and  Mr.  Webber  returned 
to  the  room. 

Short  as  was  the  interspace  from  the  door  without  to  the  room 
within,  it  was  still  ample  enough  to  effect  a very  thorough  and 
remarkable  change  in  the  whole  external  appearance  of  Mr. 
Frank  Webber;  for,  scarcely  had  the  oaken  panel  shut  out  the 
Doctor,  when  he  appeared  no  longer  the  shy,  timid,  and  silvery- 
toned  gentleman  of  five  minutes  before;  but,  dashing  boldly 
forward,  he  seized  a key-bugle  that  lay  hid  beneath  a sofa-cush- 
ion, and  blew  a tremendous  blast. 

“ Come  forth,  ye  demons  of  the  lower  world,”  said  he,  draw- 
ing a cloth  from  a large  table,  and  discovering  the  figures  of 
three  young  men  coiled  up  beneath.  “Come  forth,  and  fear 
not,  most  timorous  freshmen  that  ye  are,”  said  he,  unlocking  a 
pantry,  and  liberating  two  ethers.  “Gentlemen,  let  me  intro- 
duce to  your  acquaintance,  Mr.  O’Malley.  My  chum,  gentle- 
men. Mr.  O’Malley,  this  is  Harry  Nesbit,  who  has  been  in  col- 
lege since  the  days  of  old  Perpendicular,  and  numbers  more 
cautions  than  any  man  who  ever  had  his  name  on  the  books. 
Here  is  my  particular  friend,  Cecil  Cavendish,  the  only  mar 
^ho  could  ever  devil  kidneys.  Captain  Power,  Mr.  O’Malley 
flashing  dragoon,  as  you  see;  ai ^-de-camp  to  his  excellency  the 
Lord  Lieutenant^  and  love-mak^r  general  to  Merrion  square, 
West. 

“ These.”  said  he,  pointing  to  the  late  denizens  oi  the  pantry, 
“ are  Jibs,  whose  names  are  neither  known  to  the  proctor  nor 
the  police  office;  but,  with  due  regard,  to  their  education  and 
morals,  we  don’t  despair.” 

“ By  no  means,”  said  Power;  ‘ out  come,  let  us  resume  our 
game.”  At  these  words  he  took  a folio  atlas  of  maps  from  a 
small  table,  and  displayed  beneath  a pack  of  cards,  dealt  as  if 
for  whist.  The  two  gentlemen  to  whom  I was  introduced  by 
name,  returned  to  their  places;  the  unknown  two  put  on  their 
boxing-gloves,  and  all  resumed  the  hilarity  which  Dr>  Mooney’s 
advent  had  so  suddenly  interrupted. 

“ Where’s  . Moore?”  said  Webber,  as  he  once  more  seated 
himself  at  his  breakfast. 

“ Making  a spatch-ccck,  sir,”  said  the  servant.  At  the  same 
instant  a little  dapper,  jovial-looking  personage  appeared  with 
the  dish  in  question.  “ Mr.  O’Malley,  Mr,  Moore,  the  gentleman 
who*  by  repeated  remonstrances  to  the  board,  has  succeded  in 


74 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


getting  eatable  food  for  the  inhabitants  of  this  penitentiary,  and 
has  the  honored  reputation  of  reforming  the  commons  of 
college.” 

“ Anything  to  Godfrey  O’Malley,  may  I ask,  sir?”  said  Moore. 

“ His  nephew,”  I replied. 

“Which  of  you  winged  the  gentleman  the  other  day  for  not 
passing  the  decanter,  or  something  of  that  sort  ?” 

“ If  you  mean  the  affair  with  Mr.  Bodkin,  it  was  I.” 

“ Glorious  that;  begad,  I thought  you  were  one  of  us.  I say. 
Power,  it  was  he  pinked  Bodkin.” 

“ Ah,  indeed,”  said  Power,  not  turning  his  head  from  his  game; 
“ a pretty  shot,  I heard—two  by  honors — and  hit  him  fairly — the 
odd  trick.  Hammersly  mentioned  the  thing  to  me.” 

“ Oh,  is  he  in  town  ?”  said  T. 

“No,  he  sailed  for  Portsmouth  yesterday;  he  is  to  join  the 
11th — game — I say,  Webber,  you've  lost  the  rubber.” 

“Double  or  quit,  and  a dinner  at  Dunleary,”  said  Webber; 
“ we  must  show  O’Malley — confound  the  Mister — something  of 
the  place.” 

“Agreed.” 

The  whist  was  resumed;  the  boxers,  now  refreshed  by  a leg  of 
the  spatch-cock,  returned  to  their  gloves.  Mr.  Moore  took  up 
his  violin;  Mr.  Webber  his  French  horn;  and  I was  left  the  only 
unemployed  man  in  the  company. 

“ I say.  Power,  you’d  better  bring  the  drag  over  here  for  us; 
we  can  all  go  down  together.” 

“ I must  inform  you,”  said  Cavendish,  “that,  thanks  to  your 
philanthropic  efforts  of  last  night,  the  passage  from  Grafton 
street  to  Stephen’s  Green  is  impracticable.”  A tremendous  roar 
of  laughter  followed  this  announcement;  and,  though  at  the 
time  the  cause  was  unknown  to  me,  1 may  as  well  mention  it 
here,  as  I subsequently  learned  it  from  my  companions. 

Among  the  many  peculiar  tastes  which  distinguished  Mr. 
Francis  Webber,  was  an  extraordinary  fancy  for  street-begging; 
he  had,  over  and  over,  won  large  sums  upon  his  success  in  that 
difficult  walk;  and  so  perfect  were  his  disguises,  both  of  dress, 
voice,  and  manner  that  he  actually  at  one  time  succeeded  in  ob- 
taining charity  from  his  very  opponent  in  the  wager.  He  wrote 
ballads  with  the  greatest  facility,  and  sung  them  with  infinite 
pathos  and  humor;  and  the  old  woman  at  the  corner  of  College 
Green  was  certain  of  an  audience,  when  the  severity  of  the 
night  would  leave  all  other  minstrelsy  deserted.  As  these  feats 
oijonglerie  usually  terminated  in  a row,  it  was  a most  amusing 
part  of  the  transaction  to  see  the  singer's  part  taken  by  the  mob. 
against  the  college  men,  wlio.  growing  impatient  to  carry  him 
off  to  supper  somewhere,  would  invariably  be  obliged  to  have  a 
fight  for  the  booty. 

Now  it  chanced  that  a few  evenings  before  Mr.  Webber  was 
returning  with  a pocket  well  lined  with  copper  from  a musical 
reunion  he  had  held  at  the  corner  of  York  street,  when  the  idea 
struck  him  to  stop  at  the  end  of  Grafton  street,  where  a huge 
stone  grating,  at  that  time  exhibited,  perhaps  it  exhibits  still, 
the  descent  to  on©  of  the  great  main  sewers  of  the  cityv 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


75 


The  light  'was  shining  brightly  from  a pastry-cook’s  shop,  and 
showed  the  large  bars  of  stone,  between  which  the  muddy  water 
was  rushing  rapidly  down,  and  splashing  in  the  torrent  that  ran 
boisterously  several  feet  beneath. 

To  stop  in  the  street  of  any  crowded  city  is,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, an  invitation  to  others  to  do  "likewise,  which  is 
rarely  unaccepted;  but,  when,  in  addition  to  this,  you  stand 
fixedly  in  one  spot,  and  regard  with  stern  intensity  any  object 
near  you,  the  chances  are  ten  to  one  that  you  have  several  com- 
panions in  your  curiosity  before  a minute  expires. 

Now,  Webber,  who  had  at  first  stood  still,  without  any  peculiar 
thought  in  view,  no  sooner  perceived  that  he  was  joined  by^ 
others  than  the  idea  of  making  something  out  of  it  immediately 
occurred  to  him. 

‘‘What  is  it,  agra?”  inquired  an  old  woman,  very  much  in 
his  own  style  of  dress,  pulling  at  the  hood  of  his  cloak, 

“ And  can’t  you  see  for  yourself , darlin  ?”  replied  he,  sharply, 
as  he  knelt  down,  and  looked  most  intensely  at  the  sewer. 

“Are  ye  long  there,  avick?”  inquired  he  of  an  imaginary  in- 
dividual below,  and  then  waiting,  as  if  for  a reply,  said:  “Two 
hours!”  “ Blessed  virgin!  he's  two  hours  in  the  drain!” 

By  this  time  the  crowd  had  reached  entirely  across  the  street, 
and  the  crushing  and  squeezing  to  get  near  the  important  spot 
was  awful. 

“Where  did  he  come  from?  v/hoislie?  how  did  he  get  on 
there?”  were  questions  on  every  side,  and  various  surmises  were 
afloat,  till  Webber,  rising  from  his  knees,  said,  in  a mysterious 
whisper,  to  those  nearest  him;  “ He’s  made  his  escape  to-night 
out  o’  Newgate,  by  the  big  drain,  and  lost  his  way;  he  was  look- 
ing for  the  Liffey,  and  took  the  wrong  turn.” 

To  an  Irish  mob,  what  appeal  could  equal  this?  A culprit,  at 
any  time,  has  his  claim  upon  their  sympathy;  but  let  him  be 
caught  in  the  very  act  of  cheating  the  authorities  and  evading 
the  law,  and  his  popularity  knows  no  bounds.  Webber  knew 
this  well,  and  as  the  mob  thickened  axound  him  sustained  an 
imaginary  conversation  that  Savage  Landor  might  have  envied, 
imparting  now  and  then  such  hints  concerning  the  runaway  as 
\ raised  their  interest  to  the  higliest  pitch,  and  fifty  different  ver- 
’ sions  were  related  on  all  sides — of  the  crime  he  was  guilty — the 
^sentence  that  was  passed  on  him — and  the  day  he  was  to  suf- 
fer. 

“ Do  ye  see  the  light,  dear?”  said  Webber,  as  some  ingeniously 
benevolent  individual  had  lowered  down  a candle  with  a string; 
“ do  ye  see  the  light?  oh!  he’s  fainted,  the  creature!”  A cry  of 
horror  from  the  crowd  burst  forth  at  these  words,  followed  by 
an  universal  shout  of  “ break  open  the  street!” 

Pick-axes,  shovels,  spades,  and  crow-bars  seemed  absolutely 
the  walking  accompaniments  of  the  crowd,  so  suddenly  did  they 
appear  upon  the  field  of  action,  and  the  work  of  exhumation 
was  begun  with  a vigor  that  speedily  covered  nearly  half  of  the 
street  with  mud  and  paving-stones;  parties  relieved  each  other 
at  the  task,  and  ere  half  an  hour  a hole,  capable  of  containing  a 
paail-coacb,  was  yawning  in  one  of  the  most  frequented  thor- 


76. 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


oughfares  of  Dublin.  Meanwhile,  as  no  appearance  of  the  cul- 
prit could  be  had,  dreadful  conjectures  as  to  his  fate  began  to 
gain  ground.  By  this  time  the  authorities  had  received  intima- 
tion of  what  was  going  forward,  and  attempted  to  disperse  the 
crowd;  but  Webber,  who  still  continued  to  conduct  the  prose- 
cution, called  on  them  to  resist  the  police,  and  save  the  poor 
creature;  and  now  began  a most  terrific  fray,  the  stones  forming 
a ready  weapon,  were  hurled  at  the  unprepared  constables,  who, 
on  their  side,  fought  manfully,  but  against  •superior  numbers, 
so  that  at  last  it  was  only  by  the  aid  of  a military  force  the  mob 
could  be  dispersed,  and  a riot,  which  had  assumed  a very  serious 
character,  got  under.  Meanwhile,  Webber  had  reached  his 
chambers  and  changed  his  costume,  and  was  relating  over  a 
supper-table  the  narrative  of  his  philanthropy  to  a very  admir- 
ing circle  of  his  friends. 

Such  was  my  chum,  Frank  Webber,  and  as  this  was  the  first 
anecdote  I had  heard  of  him,  I relate  it  here  that  my  readers 
may  be  in  possession  of  the  grounds  upon  which  my  opinion  of 
that  celebrated  character  was  founded,  while  yet  our  acquaint- 
ance was  in  its  infancy. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

CAPTAIN  POWER. 

Within  a few  weeks  after  my  arrival  in  town  I had  become  a 
matriculated  student  of  the  university,  and  the  possessor  of 
chambers  within  its  walls,  in  conjunction  with  the  sage  and 
prudent  gentleman  I have  introduced  to  my  readers  in  the  last 
chapter.  Had  my  intentions  on  entering  college  been  of  the 
most  studious  and  regular  kind,  the  companion  into  whose  so- 
ciety I was  immediarely  thrown  would  have  quickly  dissipated 
them.  He  voted  morning  chapels  a bore,  Greek  lectures  a hum- 
bug, examinations  a farce,  and  pronounced  the  statute  book, 
with  its  attendant  train  of  fines  and  punishment,  an  ‘‘  unclean 
thing.’^  With  all  my  country  habits  and  predilections  fresh 
upon  me,  that  I was  an  easily  won  disciple  to  his  code  need  not 
be  wondered  at,  and,  indeed,  ere  many  days  had  passed  over,  my 
thorough  indifference  to  all  college  rules  and  regulations  had 
given  me  a high  place  in  the  esteem  of  Webber  and  his  friends. 
As  for  myself,  I was  most  agreeably  surprised  to  find  that  what 
I had  looked  forward  to  as  a very  melancholy  banishment,  was 
likely  to  prove  a most  agreeable  sojourn. 

Under  Webber’s  directions  there  was  no  hour  of  the  day  that 
hung  heavily  upon  our  hands;  we  rose  about  eleven,  and  break- 
fasted; after  which  succeeded  fencing,  sparring,  billiards,  or 
tennis  in  the  park;  about  three  got  on  horseback,  and  either  can- 
tered in  the  Phoenix  or  about  the  squares  till  visiting  time:  after 
which  we  made  our  calls,  and  then  dressed  for  dinner,  which  we 
never  thought  of  taking  at  commons,  but  had  it  from  Mor- 
rison’s— we  both  being  reported  sick  in  the  Dean’s  list,  and 
thereby  exempt  from  the'meager  fare  of  the  fellows’  table.  In 
the  evening  our  occupations  became  still  more  pressing;  there 
were  balls,  suppers,  whist  parties,  rows  at  the  theater,  shin- 


OMARLES  aMALLEV. 


ri 

dies  in  the  street,  deviled  drumsticks  at  Hayes’s,  select  oyster 
parties  at  the  Carling  ford;  in  fact,  every  known  method  of  re- 
maining up  all  night,  and  appearing  both  pale  and  penitent  the 
following  morning. 

Webber  had  a large  acquaintance  in  Dublin,  and  soon  made 
me  known  to  them  all;  among  others,  the  officers  of  the  — th 
Light  Dragoons,  in  which  regiment  Power  was  a captain,  were 
his  particular  friends,  and  we  had  frequent  invitations  to  dine  at 
their  mess.  There  it  was  first  that  military  life  presented  itself 
to  me,  and  in  its  most  attractive  possible  form,  and  heightened 
the  passion  I already  so  strongly  conceived  for  the  army. 
Power,  above  all  others,  took  my  fancy;  he  was  a gay,  dashing- 
looking,  handsome  fellow,  of  about  eight-and-twenty,  who  had 
already  seen  some  service,  having  joined  while  his  regiment 
was  in  Portugal;  was  in  heart  and  soul  a soldier;  and  had  that 
species  of  pride  and  enthusiasm  in  all  that  regarded  a military 
career  that  form  no  small  part  of  the  charm  in  the  character  of 
a young  officer. 

I sat  near  him  the  second  day  we  dined  at  the  mess,  and  was 
much  pleased  at  many  slight  attentions  in  his  manner  toward 
me.  “ I called  on  you  to-day,  Mr.  O’Malley,”  said  he,  “ in  com- 
pany with  a friend,  who  is  most  anxious  to  see  you.” 

“ Indeed,”  said  I,  “ I did  not  hear  of  it.” 

“We  left  no  cards,  either  of  us,  as  we  determined  to  make 
you  out  on  another  day;  my  companion  has  urgent  reasons  for 
seeing  you — I see  you  are  puzzled,”  said  he;  “and,  although  I 
promised  to  keep  his  secret,  I must  blab;  it  was  Sir  George 
Dashwood  who  was  with  me;  he  told  us  of  your  most  romantic 
adventure  in  the  west,  and,  faith,  there  is  no  doubt  you  saved 
the  lady’s  life.” 

“Was  she  worth  the  trouble  of  it?”  said  the  old  Major, 
whose  conjugal  experiences  imparted  a very  crusty  tone  to  the 
question. 

“ I think,”  said  I,  “ I need  only  tell  her  name  to  convince  you 
of  it.” 

“ Here’s  a bumper  to  her,”  said  Power,  filling  his  glass;  “ and 
every  true  man  will  follow  my  example.” 

When  the  hip,  hipping  which  followed  the  toast  was  over,  I 
found  myself  enjoying  no  small  share  of  the  attention  of  the 
party  as  the  deliverer  of  Lucy  Dashwood. 

“ Sir  George  is  cudgeling  his  brain  to  show  his  gratitude  to 
you,”  said  Power. 

“ What  a pity,  for  the  sake  of  his  peace  of  mind,  that  you’re 
not  in  the  army,”  said  another;  “ it’s  so  easy  to  show  a man  a 
delicate  regard  by  a quick  promotion.” 

“ A devil  of  a pity  for  his  own  sake,  too,”  said  Fowler,  again; 

they’re  going  to  make  a lawyer  of  as  strapping  a fellow  as  ever 
carried  a saber-tash.” 

“ A lawyer!”  cried  out  half  a dozen  together,  pretty  much 
with  the  same  tone  and  emphasis  as  though  he  had  said  a two- 
penny postman;  “ the  devil  they  are!” 

“ Cut  the  service  at  once;  you’ll  get  no  promotion  in  it,”  said 
the  colonel;  “ a fellow  with  a black  eje  like  ,vou  would  looK 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


much  better  at  the  head  of  a squadron  than  a line  of  witnesses* 
Trust  me,  you’d  shine  more  in  conducting  a picket  than  a pros- 
ecution.” 

‘‘  But  if  I can’t  ?”  said  I. 

‘‘Then  take  my  plan,”  said  Power,  “ and  make  it  cut  you — — ” 

“ Yours?”  said  two  or  three  in  a breath;  “ yours ?” 

“ Ayj  mine;  did  you  never  know  that  I was  bred  to  the  bar? 
Come,  come,  if  it  was  only  for  O’Malley’s  use  and  benefit — as  we 
say  in  the  parchments — I must  tell  you  the  story,” 

The  claret  was  pushed  briskly  round,  chairs  drawn  up  to  fiJ 
any  vacant  spaces,  and  Power  began  his  story: 

“As  I am  not  over  long-winded,  don’t  be  scared  at  my  begin- 
ning my  history  somewhat  far  back.  I began  life,  that  most 
unlucky  of  all  earthly  contrivances  for  supplying  casualties  in 
case  anything  may  befall  the  heir  of  the  house — a species  of  do- 
mestic jury-mast,  only  lugged  out  in  a gale  of  wind — a younger 
son.  My  brother  Tom,  a thick-skulled,  pudding-headed  dog,  that 
had  no  taste  for  anything  save  his  dinner,  took  it  into  his  wise 
head  one  morning  that  he  would  go  into  the  army,  and,  al- 
though I had  been  originally  destined  for  a soldier,  no  sooner 
was  his  choice  made  than  all  regard  for  my  taste  and  inclina- 
tions was  forgotten;  and,  as  the  family  interest  was  only  enough 
for  one,  it  was  decided  that  I should  be  put  in  what  is  called  a 
‘ learned  profession,’  and  let  push  my  fortune.  ‘ Take  your 
choice,  Dick,’  said  my  father,  with  a most  benign  smile,  ‘ take 
your  choice,  boy;  will  you  be  a lawyer,  a parson,  or  a doctor?’ 

“ Had  he  said,  ‘ Will  you  be  put  in  the  stocks,  the  pillory,  or 
publicly  whipped?’  I could  not  have  looked  more  blank  than  at 
the  question. 

“ As  a decent  Protestant,  he  should  have  grudged  me  to  the 
church;  as  a philanthropist,  he  might  have  scrupled  at  making 
me  a physician:  but,  as  he  had  lost  deeply  by  lawsuits,  there 
looked  something  very  like  a lurking  malice  in  sending  me  to 
the  bar.  Now  so  far  I concurred  with  him,  for,  having  no  gift 
for  enduring  either  sermons  or  senna,  I thought  I’d  make  a bad 
administrator  of  either,  and,  as  I was  ever  regarded  in  the  fami- 
ly as  rather  of  a shrewd  and  quick  turn,  with  a very  natural 
taste  for  roguery began  to  believe  he  Avas  right,  and  that  nat- 
ure intended  me  for  the  circuit. 

“From  the  hour  my  vocation  was  pronounced  it  had  been 
happy  for  the  family  that  they  could  have  got  rid  of  me.  A cer- 
tain ambition  to  rise  in  my  profession  laid  hold  on  me,  and  I 
meditated  all  day  and  night  how  I was  to  get  oh.  Every  trick, 

. every  subtle  invention  to  cheat  the  enemy,  that  I could  read  of, 
I treasured  up  carefully,  being  fully  impressed  with  the  notion 
that  roguery  meant  law,  and  equity  was  only  another  name  for 
odd  and  even. 

“ My  days  were  spent  haranguing  special  juries  of  housemaids 
and  laundresses,  cross-examining  the  cook,  charging  the  under- 
butler, and  passing  sentence  of  death  upon  the  pantry  boy,  who, 
I may  add,  was  invariably  hanged  when  the  court  rose. 

“If  the  mutton  were  overdone,  or  the  turkey  burned,  I drew 
,up  an  indictment  against  old  Margaret,  and  against  the  kitchen 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


79 


tnaid  as  accomplice;  and  the  family  hungered  while  I harangued ; 
and,  in  fact,  into  such  disrepute  did  I bring  the  legal  profession, 
by  the  score  of  annoyances  of  which  I made  it  the  vehicle,  that 
my  father  got  a kind  of  holy  horror  of  law-courts,  judges,  and 
crown  solicitors,  and  absented  himself  from  the  assizes  the  same 
year,  for  which,  being  a high  sheriff,  he  paid  a penalty  of  £500. 

The  next  day  I was  sent  off  in  disgrace  to  Dublin  to  begin 
my  career  in  college,  and  eat  the  usual  quartos  and  folios  of 
beef  and  mutton  which  qualify  a man  for  the  woolsack.  I 

“ Years  rolled  over,  in  which,  after  an  ineffectual  effort  to  get 
through  college,  the  only  examination  I ever  got  being  a jubi- 
lee for  the  king’s  birthday,  I was  at  length  called  to  the  Irish 
bar,  and  saluted  by  my  friends  as  Counselor  Power.  The  whole 
thing  was  so  like  a joke  to  me,  that  it  kept  me  in  laughter  for 
three  terms,  and  in  fact  it  was  the  best  thing  could  happen  me, 
for  I had  nothing  else  to  do.  The  hall  of  the  Four  Courts  was  a 
very  pleasant  lounge,  plenty  of  agreeable  fellows  that  never 
earned  sixpence,  or  were  likely  to  do  so.  Then  the  circuits 
were  so  many  country  excursions,  that  supplied  fun  of  one  kind 
or  other,  but  no  profit.  As  for  me,  I was  what  is  called  a good 
junior;  I knew  how  to  look  after  the  waiter,  to  inspect  the  de- 
canting of  the  wine,  and  the  airing  of  the  claret,  and  was  al- 
ways attentive  to  the  father  of  the  circuit,  the  crossest  old  vil- 
lain that  ever  was  a king’s  counsel.  These  eminent  qualities, 
and  my  being  able  to  sing  a song  in  honor  of  our  own  bar,  were 
recommendations  enough  to  make  me  a favorite,  and  I was 
one. 

“ Now  the  reputation  I obtained  was  pleasant  enough  at  first? 
but  somehow,  I wondered  that  I never  got  a brief.  Somehow, 
if  it  rained  civil  bills  or  declarations,  devil  a one  would  fall  upon 
my  head,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  only  object  I had  in  life  was  to 
accompany  the  circuit,  a kind  of  deputy- assistant-commissary- 
general,  never  expected  to  come  into  action.  To  be  sure,  I was 
not  alone  in  misfortune;  there  v/ere  several  promising  youths 
vrho  cut  great  figures  in  Trinity,  in  the  same  predicament,  the 
only  difference  being  that  they  attributed  to  jealousv  what 
I suspected  was  forget^fulness,  for  I don’t  think  a single  sfttorney 
in  Dublin  knew  one  of  us. 

“ Two  years  passed  over,  and  then  I walked  the  hall  with  a bag 
filled  with  newspapers,  to  look  like  briefs,  and  was  regularly 
called  by  two  or  three  criers  from  one  court  to  the  other.  It 
never  took;  even  when  I used  to  seduce  a country  friend  to  visit 
the  courts,  and  get  him  into  an  animated  conversation  in  a comer 
between  two  pillars,  devil  a one  would  believe  him  to  be  a client, 
and  I was  fairly  nonplused. 

“How  is  a man  ever  to  distinguish  himself  in  such  a walk  as 
this?  was  my  eternal  question  to  myself  every  morning  as  I put 
on  my  wig.  My  face  is  as  well  known  here  as  Lord  Manners; 
everyone  says:  ‘ How  are  you,  Dick?’  ‘How  goes  it.  Power?’ 
bnt  except  Holmes,  that  said  one  morning  as  he  passed  me:  ‘ Eh, 
always  busy,’  no  one  alludes  to  the  possibility  of  nay  having  any- 
thing to  do* 


80 


CMARLES  aMALLEV. 


‘‘  If  I only  could  get  a footing,  thought  I,  Lord  how  I’d  aston* 
ish  them,  as  the  song  says: 

‘ Perhaps  a recruit 
Mi^ht  chance  to  shoot 
Great  General  Bonaparte.’ 

So,  said  I to  myself.  I’ll  make  these  halls  ring  for  it  some  day  or 
other,  if  the  occasion  ever  presents  itself.  But,  faith,  it  seemed 
as  if  some  cunning  solicitor  overheard  me,  and  told  his  associates, 
for  they  avoided  me  like  a leprosy.  The  home  circuit,  I had 
adopted  for  some  time  past,  for  the  very  palpable  reason  that, 
being  near  town,  it  was  least  expense,  and  it  had  all  the  ad- 
vantages of  any  other  for  me,  in  getting  me  nothing  to  do. 
Well,  one  morning  we  were  in  Philipstown;  I was  lying  awake 
in  bed,  thinking  how  long  it  would  be  before  I’d  sum  up  resolu- 
tion to  cut  the  bar,  where  certainly  my  prospects  were  not  the 
most  cheering,  when  some  one  tapped  at  the  door. 

“ ‘ Come  in,'  said  I. 

“ The  waiter  opened  gently,  and  held  out  his  hand  with  a large 
roll  of  paper  tied  round  with  a flece  of  red  tape. 

“ ‘Counselor,’  said  he,  ‘ handsel.’ 

“ ‘ What  do  you  mean  ? said  I,  jumping  out  of  bed,  ‘ what  is 
it,  you  villain  ?’ 

‘‘  ‘ A brief.’ 

“ ‘ A brief;  so  I see,  but  it’s  for  Counselor  Kin  sheila,  below 
stairs.’  That  was  the  first  name  written  on  it. 

“ ‘ Bethershin,’  said  he,  ‘ Mr.  M’Grath  bid  me  give  it  to  you 
carefully.’ 

“ By  this  time  I had  opened  the  envelope,  and  read  my  own 
name  at  full  length  as  junior  counsel  in  the  important  case  of 
Monaghan  v.  M’Shane,  to  be  tried  in  the  record  court,  at  Ballina- 
sloe.  ‘ That  will  do,’  said  I,  flinging  it  on  the  bed  with  a careless 
air,  as  if  it  were  a very  every-day  matter  with  me. 

“ ‘ But  Counselor,  darlin’,  give  us  a thrifie  to  dhrink  your 
health,  with  your  first  cause,  and  the  Lord  send  you  plenty  of 
them.’ 

‘ My  first,’  said  I,  with  a smile  of  most  ineffable  compassion 
at  his  simplicity,  ‘ I’m  worn  out  with  them;  do  you  know,  Peter, 
I was  thinking  seriously  of  leaving  the  bar,  when  you  came  into 
the  room?  Upon  my  conscience,  it’s  in  earnest  I am.’ 

“ Peter  believed  me,  I think,  for  I saw  him  give  a very  pecul- 
iar look  as  he  pocketed  his  half-crown  and  left  the  room. 

“ The  door  was  scarcely  closed  when  I gave  way  to  the  free 
transport  of  my  ecstasy;  there  it  lay  at  last,  the  long-looked-for, 
long-wished  for  object  of  all  my  happiness,  and  though  I well 
knew  that  a junior  counsel  has  about  as  much  to  do  in  the  con- 
ducting of  a case  as  a rusty  handspike  has  in  a naval  engage- 
ment, yet  I suffered  not  such  thoughts  to  mar  the  current  of  my 
happiness.  There  was  my  name  in  conjunction  with  the  two 
mighty  leaders  on  the  circuit,  and  though  they  each  pocketed 
a hundred,  I doubt  very  much  if  they  received  their  briefs  with 
one  half  the  satisfaction.  My  joy  at  length  a little  subdued,  I 
opened  the  roll  of  paper,  and  iDegan  carefully  to  peruse  about 
fifty  ^ages  of  narrative  regarding  a water-course  that  once 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


81 


had  turned  a mill;  but,  for  some  reasons  doubtless  known  to 
itself  or  its  friends,  would  do  so  no  longer,  and  thus  set  two 
respectable  neighbors  at  loggerheads,  and  involved  them  in  a 
record  that  had  now  been  heard  three  several  times. 

“ Quite  forgetting  the  subordinate  part  I was  destined  to  fill, 
I opened  the  case  in  a most  flowery  oration,  in  which  I descant- 
ed upon  the  benefits  accruing  to  mankiud  from  water  communi- 
cation since  the  days  of  Noah;  remarked  upon  the  antiquity  of 
mills,  and  especially  of  millers,  and  consumed  half  an  hour  in  a 
preamble  of  generalities  that  I hoped  would  make  a considerable 
impression  upon  the  court.  Just  at  the  critical  moment  when  I 
was  about  to  enter  more  particularly  into  the  case,  three  or  four 
of  the  great  unhriefed  came  rattling  into  my  room,  and  broke  in 
upon  the  oration. 

“ ‘ I say.  Power,’  said  one;  ‘ come  and  have  an  hour’s  skating 
on  the  canal:  the  courts  are  filled,  and  we  shan’t  be  missed.” 

“ ‘ Skate,  my  dear  friend,’  said  I,  in  a most  dolorous  tone,  ‘ out 
of  the  question;  see,  I am  chainedT  to  a devilish  knotty  case 
with  Kinshella  and  Mills.’ 

“ * Confound  your  humbugging,’  said  another,  ‘ that  may  do 
very  well  in  Dublin  for  the  attorneys,  but  not  with  us.’ 

“ ‘ I don’t  well  understand  you,’  I replied;  ‘ there  is  the  brief. 
Henesy  expects  me  to  report  upon  it  this  evening,  and  I am  so 
hurried.’ 

“ Here  a very  chorus  of  laughing  broke  forth,  in  which,  after 
several  vain  efforts  to  resist,  I was  forced  to  join,  and  kept  it  up 
with  the  others. 

**  When  our  mirth  was  over,  my  friends  scrutinized  the  red- 
tape-tied  packet,  and  pronounced  it  a real  brief,  with  a degree 
of  surprise  that  certainly  augured  little  for  their  familiarity 
with  such  objects  of  natural  history. 

“ When  they  had  left  the  room,  I leisurely  examined  the  all- 
important  document,  spreading  it  out  before  me  upon  the  table, 
and  surveying  it  as  a newly  anointed  sovereign  might  be  sup- 
posed to  contemplate  a map  of  his  dominions. 

“ ‘ At  last,’  said  I to  myself,  ‘ at  last,  and  here  is  the  footstep  to 
the  woolsack.’  For  more  than  an  hour  I sat  motionless,  my  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  outspread  paper,  lost  in  a very  maze  of  reverie. 
The  ambition  which  disappointments  had  crushed  and  delay  had 
chilled  suddenly  came  back,  and  all  my  day-dreams  of  legal  suc- 
cess, my  cherished  aspirations  after  silk  gowns,  and  patents  of 
precedence,  rushed  once  more  upon  me,  and  I resolved  to  do  or 
die.  Alas!  a very  little  reflection  showed  me  that  the  latter  was 
perfectly  practicable;  but  that,  as  a junior  counsel,  five  minutes 
of  very  commonplace  recitation  w^as  all  my  province,  and  with 
the  main  business  of  the  day  I had  about  as  much  to  do  as  the 
call-boy  of  a play-house  has  with  the  success  of  a tragedy. 

“ ‘ My  lord,  this  is  an  action  brought  by  Timothy  Higgins,’  &c., 
and  down  I go,  no  more  to  be  remembered  and  thought  of  than 
if  I had  never  existed.  How  different  it  would  be  were  I the 
leader!  Zounds,  how  I would  worry  the  witnesses,  browbeat 
the  evidence,  cajole  the  jury,  and  soften  the  judges!  If  the  Lord 
were,  in  his  mercy,  to  remove  old  Mills  and  Kinshella  before 


82 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


Tuesday,  who  knows  but  my  fortune  might  be  made?  This 
supposition  once  started,  set  me  speculating  upon  all  the  possible 
chances  that  might  cut  off  two  king’s  counsel  in  three  days, 
and  left  me  fairly  convinced  that  my  own  elevation  was  certain 
were  they  only  removed  from  my  path. 

“For  two  whole  days,  the  thought  never  left  my  mind;  and, 
on  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  I sat  moodily  over  my  pint  of 
port  in  the  Clonbrock  Arms,  with  my  friend,  Timothy  Casey^ 
Captain  in  the  North  Cork  militia,  foi*  my  companion. 

“‘Fred,’  said  Tim,  ‘take  off  your  wine,  man.  When  does 
this  confounded  trial  come  on?’ 

“ ‘ To-morrow,’  said  I,  with  a.  deep  groan. 

“ ‘ Well,  well,  and  if  it  does,  what  matter?’  he  said,  ‘ you’ll  do 
well  enough,  never  be  afraid.’ 

“‘Alas!’  said  I,  ‘you  don’t  understand  the  cause  of  my  de- 
pression.’ I here  entered  upon  an  account  of  my  sorrows, 
which  lasted  for  above  an  hour,  and  only  concluded  just  as  a 
tremendous  noise  in  the  street  without  announced  an  arrival. 
For  several  minutes,  such  was  the  excitement  in  the  house,  such 
running  hither  and  thither — such  confusion,  and  such  hubbub, 
that  we  could  not  make  out  who  had  arrived. 

“At  last  a door  opened  quite  near  us,  and  we  saw  the  waiter 
assisting  a very  portly-looking  gentleman  off  with  his  great-coat, 
assuring  him  the  while,  that  if  he  would  only  walk  into  the 
coffee-room  for  ten  minutes,  the  fire  in  his  apartment  should  be 
got  ready.  The  stranger  accordingly  entered  and  seated  himself 
in  the  fireplace,  having  never  noticed  that  Casey  and  myself — 
the  only  persons  there — were  in  the  room. 

“ ‘ I say,  Phil,  who  is  he?’  inquired  Casey  of  the  waiter. 

“ ‘ Counselor  Mills,  Captain,’  said  the  waiter,  and  left  the 
room. 

“ ‘That's  your  friend,’  said  Casey. 

“ ‘I  see,’  said  I,  ‘and  I wish,  with  all  my  heart,  he  was  at 
home  with  his  pretty  wife,  in  Leeson  street.’ 

“ ‘ Is  she  good-looking?’  inquired  Tim. 

“ ‘ Devil  a better,’  said  I,  ‘ and  he’s  as  jealous  as  Old  Nick.’ 

“ ‘ Hem,’  said  Tim,  ‘ mind  your  cue  and  I’ll  give  him  a start. 
Here  he  suddenly  changed  his  whispering  tone  for  one  in  a louder 
key,  and  resumed:  ‘ I say.  Power,  it  will  make  some  work  for 
you  lawyers.  But  who  can  she  be?  that’s  the  question.’  Here 
he  took  a much  crumpled  letter  from  his  pocket,  and  pretended 
to  read — ‘ A great  sensation  was  created  jn  the  neighborhood  of 
Merrion  square,  yesterday,  by  the  sudden  disappearance  from  her 

house  of  the  handsome  Mrs. .’  Confound  it — what’s  the  name  ? 

— what  a hand  he  writes!  Hill  or  Miles,  or  something  like  that 
—‘the  lady  of  an  eminent  barrister,  now  on  circuit.  The  gay 
Lothario  is,  they  say,  the  Hon  George .’  I was  so  thunder- 

struck at  the  rashness  of  the  stroke,  I could  say  nothing;  while 
the  old  gentleman  started  as  if  he  had  sat  down  on  a pin.  Casey, 
meanwhile  went  on: 

“ ‘ Hell  and  fury,’  said  the  king’s  counsel.,  rushing  over.  ‘ wh;it 
i%  it  you’re  saying  ? 


CHARLES  a HALLEY, 


83 


‘‘  ‘You  appear  warm,  old  gentleman,’  said  Casey,  putting  up 
the  letter,  and  rising  from  the  table. 

“ ‘ Show  me  that  letter;  show  me  that  infernal  letter,  sir,  this 
instant!’ 

“ ‘Show  you  my  letter,’  said  Casey;  ‘cool,  that,  anyhow;  you 
are  certainly  a good  one.’ 

‘“Do  you  know  me,  sir?  answer  me  that,’ said  the  lawyer, 
bursting  with  passion. 

“ ‘ Not  at  present,’  said  Tim,  quietly;  ‘but  I hope  to  do  so  in 
the  morning,  in  explanation  of  your  language  and  conduct.’  A 
tremendous  ringing  of  the  bell  here  summoned  the  waiter  to  the 
room. 

“‘Who  is  that ’ inquired  the  lawyer.  The  epithet  he 

judged  it  safe  to  leave  unsaid,  as  he  pointed  to  Casey. 

“ ‘ Captain  Casey,  sir;  the  commanding  officer  here.’ 

“ ‘Just  so,’  said  Casej,  ‘ and  very  much  at  your  service,  any 
hour  after  five  in  the  morning.’ 

“ ‘Then  you  refuse,  sir,  to  explain  the  para.graph  I have  just 
heard  you  read.’ 

“ ‘ Well  done,  old  gentleman;  so  you  have  been  listening  to  a 
private  conversation  I held  with  my  friend  here.  In  that  case 
we  had  better  retire  to  our  room;’  so  saying,  he  ordered  a 
waiter  to  send  a fresh  bottle  and  glasses  to  No.  14,  ^d,  taking 
my  arm,  very  politely  wished  Mr.  Mills  a good-night  and  left  the 
coffee-room. 

“ Before  we  had  reached  the  top  of  tlie  stairs,  the  house  was 
once  more  in  commotion.  The  new  arrival  had  ordered  out 
fresh  horses,  and  was  hurrying  every  one  in  his  impatience  to 
get  away.  In  ten  minutes  the  chaise  rolled  off  from  the  door: 
and  Casey,  putting  his  head  out  of  the  window,  wished  him  a 
X)leasant  journey;  while,  turning  to  me,  he  said: 

“ ‘ There’s  one  of  them  out  of  the  way  for  you,  if  we  are  even 
obliged  to  fight  the  other.’ 

“The  port  was  soon  dispatched,  and  with  it  went  all  the 
scruples  of  conscience  I had  at  first  felt  for  the  cruel  ruse  we  .had 
just  practiced.  Scarcely  was  the  other  bottle  called  for  when 
we  heard  the  landlord  calling  out,  in  a stentorian  voice: 

“ ‘ Two  horses  for  Goron  bridge,  to  meet  Counselor  Kinshella.’ 

“ ‘That’s  the  other  fellow,’  said  Casey. 

“ ‘ It  is,’  said  I. 

“ ‘ Then  v’e  must  be  stirring,’  said  he.  ‘ Waiter,  a chaise  and 
pair,  in  five  minutes — d’ye  hear  ? Power,  my  boy,  1 don’t  want 
you;  stay  here,  and  study  your  brief.  It’s  little  trouble  Coun- 
selor Kinshella  will  give  you  in  the  morning.’ 

All  he  would  tell  me  of  his  plans  was,  that  he  didn’t  mean 
any  serious  bodily  harm  to  the  counselor,  but  that  certainly  he 
was  not  likely  to  be  heard  for  twenty-four  hours. 

“ ‘ Meanwhile,  Power,  go  in  and  win,  my  boy,”  said  he;  ‘ such 
another  walk-over  for  you  may  never  occur.’ 

“I  must  not  make  my  story  longer.  Thanext  morning  the 
great  record  of  Monaghan  v,  M’Shane  was  called  on,  and,  as  the 
senior  counsel  were  not  present,  the  attorney  wished  a postpone 
m^nt.  I,  howeye?’^  was  firm;  told  the  court  I was  quite  pre- 


84 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


pared,  and,  with  such  an  air  of  assurance,  that  I actually  puzzled 
the  attorney.  The  case  was  accordingly  opened  by  me,  in  a 
very  brilliant  speech,  and  the  witnesses  called;  but,  such  was 
my  unlucky  ignorance  of  the  whole  matter,  that  I actually 
broke  down  the  testimony  of  our  own,  and  fought  like  a Trojan 
for  the  credit  and  character  of  the  perjurers  against  usi  The 
judge  rubbed  his  eyes — the  jury  looked  amazed — and  the  whole 
bar  laughed  outright.  However,  on  I went,  blundering,  floun- 
dering, and  founderin  gat  every  step,  and,  at  half-past  four,  amid 
the  greatest  and  most  uproarious  mirth  of  the  whole  court,  heard 
the  jury  deliver  a verdict  against  us,  just  as  old  Kinshella  rushed 
into  the  court  covered  with  mud,  and  splattered  with  clay.  He 
had  been  sent  for  twenty  miles  to  make  a will  for  Mr.  Daly  of 
Daly’s  Mount,  who  was  supposed  to  be  at  the  point  of  death, 
but  who,  on  his  arrival,  threatened  to  shoot  him  for  causing  an 
alarm  to  his  family^by  such  an  imputation. 

“ The  rest  is  soon  told.  They  moved  for  a new  trial,  and  I 
moved  out  of  the  profession.  I cut  the  bar,  for  it  cut  me;  I joined 
the  gallant  14th  as  c volunteer,  and  here  I am  without  a single 
regret,  I must  confess,  that  I didn’t  succeed  in  the  great  record 
of  Monaghan  v.  M’Shane.” 

Once  more  the  claret  went  briskly  round,  and  while  we  can- 
vassed Power’s  cstory.  many  an  anecdote  of  military  life  was 
told,  which  ever  instant  extended  the  charm  of  that  career  I 
longed  for. 

‘‘Another  cooper.  Major,”  said  Power. 

“ With  all  my  heart,”  said  tho  rosy  little  ofiicer,  as  he  touched 
the' bell  behind  him;  “ and  now  let’s  have  a song.” 

“ Yes,  Power,”  said  three  or  four  together,  “ let  us  have  ‘ The 
Irish  Dragoon,'  if  it’s  only  to  convert  your  friend  O’Malley 
there.” 

“ Here  goes,  then,”  said  Dick,  taking  off  a bumper  as  he  began 
the  following  chant  to  the  air  of  “Love  is  the  soul  of  a gay 
Irishman;” 


“THE  IRISH  DRAGOON. 

“ Oh,  love  is  the  soul  of  an  Irish  Dragoon, 

In  battle,  in  bivouac,  or  in  saloon — 

From  the  tip  of  his  spur  to  his  bright  sabertasche. 
With  his  soldierly  gait  and  his  bearing  so  high. 

His  gay  laughing  look  and  his  light  speaking  eye, 

He  frowns  at  his  rival,  he  ogles  his  Tvench, 

He  springs  in  his  saddle  and  chasses  the  French — 
With  his  jingling  spur  and  his  bright  sabertasche. 

“ His  spirits  are  high,  and  he  little  knows  care. 
Whether  sipping  his  claret  or  charging  a square — 
With  his  jingling  spur  and  his  bright  sabertasche, 
As  ready  to  sing  or  to  skirmish  he’s  found. 

To  take  off  his  wine,  or  to  take  up  his  ground; 

When  the  bugle  may  call  him,  how  little  he  fears 
To  charge  forth  in  column  and  beat  the  Mounseers — 
With  his  jingling  spur  and  his  bright  sabertasche. 


CHARLES  ,HMALLEY, 


85 


“ When  the  battle  is  over,  he  gayly  rides  back 
To  cheer  every  soul  in  the  night  bivouac — 

With  his  jingling  spur  and  his  bright  sabertasche. 

Oh!  there  you  may  see  him  in  full  glory  crown’d, 

As  he  sits  with  his  friends  on  the  hardly  won  ground, 

And  hear  with  what  feeling  the  toast  he  will  give, 

As  he  drinks  to  the  land  where  all  Irishmen  live — 

With  his  jingling  spur  and  his  bright  sabertasche.” 

It  was  late  when  we  broke  up;  but  among  all  the  recollections 
of  that  pleasant  evening,  none  clung  to  me  so  forcibly,  none  sunk 
so  deeply  in  my  heart,  as  the  gay  and  careless  tone  of  Power’s 
manly  voice,  and  as  I fell  asleep  toward  morning,  the  words  of 
the  Irish  Dragoon  were  floating  through  my  mind,  and  followed 
me  iu  my  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  VICE -PROVOST. 

I HAD  now  been  for  some  weeks  a resident  within  the  walls  of 
the  University,  and  yet  had  never  presented  my  letter  of  intro- 
duction to  Dr.  Barret.  Somehow,  my  thoughts  and  occupations 
had  left  me  little  leisure  to  reflect  upon  my  college  course,  and  I 
had  not  felfc  the  necessity  suggested  by  my  friend  Sir  Harry  of 
having  a supporter  in  the  very  learned  and  gifted  individual  to 
whom  1 was  accredited.  How  long  I might  have  continued  in 
this  state  of  indifference  it  is  hard  to  say,  when  chance  brought 
about  my  acquaintance  with  the  doctor. 

IlliWere  I not  inditing  a true  history  in  this  narrative  of  my  life, 
to  the  events  and  characters  of  which  so  many  are  living  wit- 
nesses, I should  certainly  fear  to  attempt  anything  like  a de- 
scription of  this  very  remarkable  man,  so  liable  would  any 
sketch,  however  faint  and  imperfect,  be  to  the  accusation  of 
caricature,  when  all  was  so  singular  and  so  eccentric. 

Dr.  Barret  was,  at  the  time  I speak  of,  about  sixty  years  of 
age,  scarcely  flve  feet  in  height,  and  even  that  diminutive  stat- 
ure lessened  by  a stoop.  His  face  was  thin,  pointed,  and  russet- 
colored;  his  nose  so  aquiline  as  nearly  to  meet  his  projecting 
chin,  and  his  small  gray  eyes,  red  and  bleary,  peered  beneath 
his  well-worn  cap,  with  a glance  of  mingled  fear  and  suspicion. 
His  dress  was  a suit  of  the  rustiest  black,  threadbare,  and 
patched  in  several  places,  while  a pair  of  large  brown  leather 
slippers,  far  too  big  for  his  feet,  imparted  a sliding  motion  to  his 
walk  that  added  an  air  of  indescribable  meanness  to  his  appear- 
ance; a gown  that  had  been  worn  for  twenty  years,  browned 
and  coated  with  the  learned  dust  of  the  Eagle,  covered  his  rusty 
habiliments,  and  completed  the  equipments  of  a figure  that  it 
was  somewhat  difficult  for  the  yoimg  student  to  recognize  as 
the  Vice  Provost  of  the  University.  Such  was  he  in  externals. 
Within  a greater  or  more  profound  scholar  never  graced  the 
walls  of  the  college;  a distinguished  Grecian,  learned  in  all  the 
refinements  of  a hundred  dialects;  a deep  Orientalist,  cunning 
in  all  the  varieties  of  Eastern  languages,  and  able  to  reason 
with  a Moonshee,  or  chat  with  a Persian  embassador.  With  a 


S3 


CBAULEi^  a MALLET. 


mind  that  never  ceased  acquiring,  lie  possessed  a memory  ridic-  3 
ulous  for  its  retentiveuess  even  of  trifles;  no  character  in  his-  3 
tory,  no  event  in  chronology,  was  unknown  to  him,  and  he  was  ^ 
referred  to  by  his  contemporaries  for  information  in  doubtful 
and  disputed  cases,  as  men  consult  a lexicon  or  a dictionary.  1 
With  an  intellect  thus  stored  with  a deep  and  far  sought  knowl-  | 
edge,  in  the  affairs  of  the  world  he  was  a child.  Without  the 
walls  of  the  college,  for  above  forty  years  he  had  not  ventured  j 
half  as  many  times,  and  knew  absolutely  nothing  of  the  busy, 
active  world  that  fussed  and  fumed  so  near  him;  his  furthest  ^ 
excursion  was  to  the  Bank  of  Ireland,  to  which  he  made  occa-  >. 
sional  visits  to  fund  the  ample  income  of  his  office  arid  add  to  \ 
the  wealth  which  already  had  ac-quired  for  him  a well-merited  I 
repute  of  being  the  richest  man  in  college.  ■ 

His  little  intercourse  with  the  world  had  left  him,  in  all  his  ] 
habits  and  manners,  in  every  respect  exactly  as  when  he  en-  ■ 
tered  college,  nearly  half  a century  before;  and,  as  he  had  liter- 
ally risen  from  the  ranks  in  the  university,  all  the  peculiarities 
of  voice,  accent,  and  pronunciation  which  distinguished  him  as  i 
a youth,  adhered  to  him  in  old  age.  This  was  singular  enough, 
and  formed  a very  ludicrous  contrast  with  the  learned  and  deep- 
read  tone  of  his  conversation;  but  another  peculiarity  still  more 
striking  belonged  to  him.  When  he  became  a fellow,  he  was 
obliged  by  the  rules  of  the  college  to  take  holy  orders,  as  a sine  , 
qua  non  to  his  holding  his  fellowship;  this  he  did,  as  he  would 
have  assumed  a red  hood  or  blue  one,  as  bachelor  of  laws,  or  - 
doctor  of  medicine,  and  thought  no  more  of  it;  but,  frequently,  : 
in  his  moments  of  passionate  excitement,  the  venerable  char-  ‘ 
acter  with  which  he  was  invested  was  quite  forgotten,  and  he  ■ 
would  utter  some  sudden  and  terrific  oath,  more  productive  of  : 
mirth  to  his  auditors  than  was  seemly,  and  for  which,  once 
spoken,  the  poor  doctor  felt  the  greatest  shame  and  contrition.  ) 
These  oaths  were  no  less  singular  than  forcible,  and  many  a ' 
trick  was  practiced,  and  many  a plan  devised,  that  the  learned 
Vice-Provost  might  be  entrapped  into  his  favorite  exclamation  \ 
of  May  the  devil  admire  me,”  which  no  place  or  presence  ' 
could  restrain. 

My  servant,  Mickey,  who  had  not  been  long  in  making  him- 
self acquainted  with  all  the  originals  about  him,  was  the  cause  ■ 
of  my  first  meeting  the  Doctor,  before  whom  I received  a > 
summons  to  appear,  on  the  very  serious  charge  of  treating  with  'i 
disrespect  the  heads  of  the  college.  j 

The  circumstances  were  simply  these:  Mike  had,  among  the  J 
other  gossip  of  the  place,  heard  frequent  tales  of  the  immense  1 
wealth  and  great  parsimony  of  the  Doctor;  of  his  anxiety  to  | 
amass  money  on  all  occasions,  and  the  avidity  with  which  even  | 
the  smallest  trifle  was  added  to  his  gains.  He  accordingly  re-  | 
solved  to  amuse  himself  at  the  expense  of  this  trait,  and  pro-  J 
ceeded  thus:  boring  a hole  in  a halfpenny,  he  attached  a long  | 
string  to  it,  and,  having  dropped  it  on  the  Doctor’s  step,  stationed  1 
himself  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  court,  concealed  from  view  | 
by  the  angle  of  the  common  \vall.  He  waited  patiently  for  the  | 
chapel  bell,  at  the  first  toll  of  which  the  door  opened,  and  the  1 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


87 


Doctor  issued  forth.  Scarcely  was  his  foot  upon  the  step,  when 
he  saw  the  piece  of  money,  and  as  quickly  stooped  to  seize  it; 
but  just  as  his  fingers  had  nearly  touched  it,  it  evaded  his  grasp, 
and  slowly  retreated.  He  tried  again,  but  with  like  success. 
At  last,  thinking  he  miscalculated  the  distance,  he  knelt  leisurely 
down,  and  put  forth  his  hand;  but  lo!  it  again  escaped  him;  on 
which,  slowly  nsing  from  his  posture,  he  shambled  on  toward 
the  chapel,  where,  meeting  the  senior  lecturer  at  the  door,  he 

cried  out:  “H to  ray  soul!  Wall,  but  I saw  the  halfpenny 

walk  away.'’ 

For  the  sake  of  the  grave  character  whom  he  addressed,  I 
need  not  recount  how  such  a speech  was  received;  suffice  it  to 
say,  that  Mike  had  been  seen  by  a college  porter,  who  reported 
him  as  my  servant. 

I was  in  the  very  act  of  relating  the  anecdote  to  a large  party 
at  breakfast  in  my  rooms,  when  a summons  arrived,  requiring 
my  immediate  attendance  at  the  Board,  then  sitting  in  solemn 
conclave  at  the  Examination-hall. 

I accordingly  assumed  my  academic  costume  as  speedily  as 
possible,  and  escorted  by  that  august  functionary,  Mr.  M’Alister, 
presented  myself  before  the  seniors. 

The  members  of  the  Board,  with  the  Provost  at  their  head, 
were  seated  at  a long  oak  table,  covered  with  books,  papers,  &c.; 
and  from  the  silence  they  maintained,  as  I walked  up  the  hall, 
I augured  that  a very  solemn  scene  was  before  me. 

“ Mr.  O’Malley,”  said  the  Dean,  reading  my  name  from  a paper 
beheld  in  his  hand;  ‘‘you  hare  been  summoned  here  at  the 
desire  of  the  Vice-Provost,  whose  questions  you  will  reply  to.” 

I bowed;  a silence  of  a few  minutes  followed,  when,  at  length, 
the  learned  Doctor,  hitching  up  his  nether  garments  with  both 
hands,  put  his  old  and  bleary  e.yes  close  to  my  face,  while  he 
croaked  out  with  an  accent  that  no  hackney  coachman  could 
ha\  e exceeded  in  vulgarity: 

“Eh,  O’Malley,  you’re  quartus,  I believe;  ain’t  you?” 

“ I think  not.  I think  1 am  the  only  person  of  that  name  now 
on  the  books.” 

“ That’s  thrue;  but  there  was  three  O’Malleys  before  you. 
Godfrey  O'Malley,  that  constered  calve  Neroni  to  Nero  the  Cal- 
vinist— ha!  ha!  ha! — was  cautioned  in  1788.” 

“My  uncle,  I believe,  sir.” 

“ More  than  likely,  from  what  I hear  of  you — ex  imo,  &c.  I 
see  your  name  every  day  on  the  punishment  roll.  Late  hours, 
never  at  chapel,  seldom  at  morning  lecture.  Here  ye  are,  sixteen 
shillings,  wearing  a red  coat.” 

“ Never  knew  any  harm  in  that.  Doctor.” 

“ Ay,  but  d’ye  see  me,  now;  ‘ grave  raiment,’  says  the  statute. 
And,  then,  ye  keep  numerous  beasts  of  prey,  dangerous  in  their 
habits,  and  unseemly  to  behold.” 

“ A bull  terrier,  sir,  and  two  game  cocks,  are,  I assure  you,  the 
only  animals  in  my  household.” 

“ Well,  I’ll  fine  you  for  it.” 

“I  believe,  Doctor,”  said  the  Dean,  interrupting,  in  an  under* 
tone^  that  you  cannot  impose  a penalty  in  this  matter.” 


88 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 

‘‘  Ay,  but  I can.  Singing  birds,  says  the  statute,  n-re  forbidden 
within  the  walls. 

“And  then,  ye  dazzled  my  eyes  at  commons,  with  a bit  of 
looking-glass,  on  Friday.  I saw  you.  May  the  devil — ahem — 
as  I was  saying.  That’s  casting  reflections  on  the  heads  of  the 
college;  and  your  servant  it  was,  Michaelis  Liber,  Mickey  Free 
—may  the  flames  of — ahem— an  insolent  varlet  called  me  a 
sweep.” 

“You,  Doctor;  impossible!”  said  I,  \^ith  pretended  horror. 

“ Ay,  but  d’ye  see  me  now;  it’s  thrue;  for  I looked  about  me 
at  the  time,  and  there  wasn’t  another  sweep  in  the  place  but 
myself.  Hell  to — I mean — God  forgive  me  for  swearing;  but 
I’ll  fine  you  a pound  for  this.” 

As  I saw  the  Doctor  was  getting  on  at  such  a pace,  I resolved, 
notwithstanding  the  august' presence  of  the  Board,  to  try  the 
efficacy  of  Sir  Harry's  letter  of  introduction  which  I had  taken 
in  my  pocket,  in  the  event  of  its  being  wanted. 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  sir,  if  the  time  be  an  unsuitable  one;  but 
may  I take  the  opportunity  of  presenting  this  letter  to  you  ?” 

“"Ha!  I know  the  hand;  Boyle’s.  Boyle  secundus.  Hem,  ha, 
ay.  ‘ My  young  friend;  and  assist  him  by  your  advice.’  To  be 
sure!  Oh!  of  course.  Eh!  tell  me,  young  man,  did  Boyle  say 
nothing  to  you  about  the  copy  of  Erasmus,  bound  in  vellum, 
that  I sold  him  in  Trinity  term,  ?” 

“I  rather  think  not,  sir,”  said  I,  doubtfully. 

“ Well,  then,  he  might.  He  owes  me  two-and-fourpence  of 
the  balance.” 

“ Oh!  I beg  pardon,  sir;  I now  remember  he  desired  me  to  re- 
pay you  that  sum;  but  he  had  just  sealed  the  letter  when  he 
recollected  it.” 

“Better  late  than  never,”  said  the  Doctor,  smiling  graciously. 

Where’s  the  money  ? Ay;  half-a-crown.  I haven’t  twopence; 
never  mind.  Go  away,  young  man;  the  case  is  dismissed. 
Vehementer  miror  quare  hue  venisti.  You’re  more  fit  for  any- 
thing than  a college  life  Keep  good  hours;  mind  the  terms, 
and  dismiss  Michaelis  Liber.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  May  the  devil — hem, 

that  is,  do ” so  saying,  the  little  Doctor’s  hand  pushed  me  from 

the  hall,  his  mind  evidently  relieved  of  all  the  griefs  from  which 
he  had  been  suffering,  by  the  recovery  of  his  long-lost  two-and- 
fourpence. 

Such  was  my  first  and  last  interview  with  the  Vice-Provost, 
and  it  made  an  impression  upon  me  that  all  the  intervening 
years  have  neither  dimmed  nor  erased. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

TRINITY  COLLEGE — A LECTURE. 

I HAD  not  been  many  weeks  a resident  of  Old  Trinity  ere  the 
flattering  reputation  my  chum,  Mr.  Francis  Webber,  had  ac- 
quired, extended  also  to  myself;  and,  by  universal  consent,  we 
were  acknowledged  the  most  riotous,  ill-conducted,  and  dis- 
orderly men  on  the  books  of  the  University.  Were  the  lamps 
of  the  "squares  extinguished  and  the  College  left  in  total  dnrk- 


CHARLES  OHALLEY. 


89 


ness,  we  were  summoned  before  the  Dean;  was  the  Vice-Provost 
serenaded  with  a chorus  of  trombones  and  French  horns,  to  our 
taste  in  music  was  the  attention  ascribed;  did  a sudden  alarm 
of  fire  disturb  the  congregation  at  morning  chapel,  Messrs.  Web- 
ber and  O'Malley  were  brought  before  the  Board;  and  I must  do 
them  the  justice  to  say,  that  the  most  trifling  circumstantial 
evidence  was  ever  sufficient  to  bring  a conviction.  Reading  men 
avoided  the  building  where  we  resided  as  they  would  have  done 
the  plague.  Our  doors,  like  those  of  a certain  classic  precinct 
commemorated  by  a Latin  writer,  lay  open  night  and  day;  while 
mustached  dragoons,  knowingly  dressed  four-in-hand  men, 
fox-hunters  in  pink  issuing  forth  to  the  Dubber,  or  returning 
splashed  from  a run  with  the  Kildare  hounds,  were  everlastingly 
seen  passing  and  repassing.  Within,  the  noise  and  confusion 
resembled  rather  the  mess-room  of  a regiment  toward  eleven  at 
night,  than  the  chambers  of  a College  student;  w'hile,  with  the 
double  object  of  affecting  to  be  in  ill-health,  and  to  avoid  the 
reflections  that  daylight  occasionally  inspires,  the  shutters  were 
never  opened,  but  lamps  and  candles  kept  always  burning. 
Such  was  No.  2,  Old  Square,  in  the  goodly  days  I write  of.  All 
the  terrors  of  fines  and  punishments  fell  scatheless  on  the  head 
of  my  worthy  chum;  in  fact,  like  a well-known  political  char- 
acter, whose  pleasure  and  amusement  it  has  been  for  some  years 
past  to  drive  through  acts  of  parliaments,  and  deride  the  powers 
of  the  law,  so  did  Mr.  V/ ebber  tread  his  way,  serpentining  through 
the  statute  book,  ever  grazing,  but  rarely  trespassing  upon  some 
forbidden  ground,  which  might  involve  the  great  punishment  of 
expulsion.  So  expert,  too,  had  he  become  in  his  special  plead- 
ings, so  dexterous  in  the  law  of  the  University,  that  it  w^as  no 
easy  matter  to  bring  crime  home  to  him;  and  even  when  this 
was  done,  his  pleas  in  mitigation  rarely  failed  of  success. 

There  was  a sweetness  of  demeanor,  a mild,  subdued  tone 
about  him,  that  constantly  puzzled  the  worthy  heads  of  the  col- 
lege how  the  accusations  ever  brought  against  him  could  be 
founded  on  truth;  that  the  pale,  delicate-looking  student, 
whose  harsh,  hacking  cough  terrified  the  hearers,  could  be  the 
boisterous  performer  upon  a key  bugle,  or  the  terrific  assailant 
of  watchmen,  was  something  too  absurd  for  belief;  and  when 
Mr.  Webber,  with  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and  in  his  most  dulcet 
accents,  assured  them  that  the  hours  he  was  not  engaged  in 
reading  for  the  medal,  were  passed  in  the  soothing  society  of  a 
few  select  and  intimate  friends  of  literary  tastes  and  refined 
minds,  who,  knowing  the  delicacy  of  hie  health — here  he  would 
cough — were  kind  enough  to  sit  with  him  for  an  hour  or  so  in 
the  evening,  the  delusion  was  perfect,  and  the  story  of  the 
Dean’s  riotous  habits  having  got  abroad,  the  charge  was  usually 
suppressed. 

Like  most  idle  men,  Webber  never  had  a moment  to  spare. 
Except  read,  there  was  nothing  he  did  not  do — training  a hack 
for  a race  in  the  Phoenix — arranging  a rowing  match — getting  up 
a mock  duel  between  two  white  feathered  acquaintances — were 
his  almost  daily  avocations,  besides  that,  he  was  at  the  head  ©f 
many  organized  societies,  instituted  for  various  benevolent  pur- 


90 


CHARLES  a M ALLEY. 


poses.  One  was  called  “The  Association  for  Discountenancing 
Watchmen,”  another,  “The  Board  of  Works,”  whose  object 
was  principally  devoted  to  the  embellishment  of  the  University, 
in  which,  to  do  them  justice,  their  labors  were  unceasing,  and 
what  with  tlie  assistance  of  some  black  paint,  a ladder,  and  a few 
pounds  of  gunpowder,  they  certainly  contrived  to  effect  many 
important  changes.  Upon  an  examination  morning,  some  hun* 
dred  luckless  “ jibs”  might  be  seen  perambulating  the  courts,  in 
the  vain  effort  to  discover  their  tutors’  chambers,  the  names 
having  undergone  an  alteration  that  left  all  trace  of  their  orig- 
inal proprietors  unattainable.  Dr.  Francis  Mooney  having  be- 
come Dr.  Full  Moon — Dr.  Hare  being,  by  the  change  of  two  let- 
ters, Dr.  Ape— Eomney  Robinson,  Romulous  and  Remus,  etc. 
While,  upon  occasions  like  these,  there  could  be  but  little  doubt 
of  Master  Frank’s  intentions,  upon  many  others,  so  subtle  were 
his  inventions,  so  well-contrived  his  plots,  it  became  a matter  of 
considerable  difficulty  to  say  whettaT  the  mishap  which  befell 
some  luckless  acquaintance  were  the  result  of  design  or  mere  ac- 
cident; and  not  iinfrequently  well-disposed  individuals  were 
found  condoling  with  “ poor  Frank  ” upon  his  ignorance  of  some 
college  rule  or  etiquette,  his  breach  of  which  had  been  long  and 
deliberately  planned.  Of  this  latter  description  was  a circum- 
stance which  occurred  about  this  time,  and  which  some  who 
may  throw  an  eye  over  these  pages  v/ill  perhaps  remember. 

The  Dean  having  heard  (and  indeed  the  preparations  were  not 
intended  to  secure  secrecy)  that  Webber  destined  to  entertain  a 
party  of  his  friends  at  dinner  on  a certain  day,  sent  a most  per- 
emptory order  for  his  appearance  at  commons,  his  name  being 
erased  from  the  sick  list,  and  a pretty  strong  hint  conveyed  to 
him  that  any  evasion  upon  his  part  would  be  certainly  followed 
by  an  inquiry  into  the  real  reason  for  his  absence.  What  was  to 
be  done?  That  was  the  very  day  he  had  destined  for  his  din- 
ner. To  be  sure  the  majority  of  his  guests  were  college  men, 
who  would  understand  the  difficulty  at  once;  but  still  there  were 
some  others,  officers  of  the  l4th,  with  whom  he  was  constantly 
dining,  and  whom  he  could  not  easily  put  off.  The  affair  was 
difidcult,  but  still,  Webber  was  the  man  for  a difficulty;  in  fact 
he  rather  liked  one.  A very  brief  consideration  accordingly 
sufficed;  and  he  sat  down  and  wrote  to  his  friends  at  the  Royal 
Barracks,  thus: 

“ Dear  Power, — I have  a better  plan  on  Tuesday  than  that  I 
had  proposed.  Lunch  here  at  three — (we’ll  call  it  dinner) — in 
the  hall  with  the  great  guns.  I can’t  say  much  for  the  grub,  but 
the  company — glorious!  After  that  we’ll  start  for  Lucan  in  the 
drag — take  our  coffee,  strawberries,  &c.,  and  return  to  No.  2, 
for  supper,  at  ten.  Advise  your  fellows  of  this  change,  and 
believe  me  ‘‘  Most  unchangeably  yours, 

“Frank  Webber. 

“ Saturday.” 

Accordingly,  as  three  o’clock  struck,  six  dashing-looking 
light  dragoons  were  seen  slowly  sauntering  up  the  middle  of  the 
dining-hall,  escorted  by  Webber,  who  in  full  academic  costume, 


CHARLES  O'^MALLEY. 


91 


was  leisiiily  ciceroning  his  friends,  and  expatiating  upon  the 
excellences  of  the  very  remarkable  portraits  which  grace  the* 
walls. 

The  porters  looked  on  with  some  surprise  at  the  singular  hour 
selected  for  sight-seeing,  but  what  was  their  astonishment  to 
find  that  the  party  having  arrived  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  instead 
of  turning  back  again,  very  composedly  unbuckled  their  belts, 
and  having  disposed  of  their  sabers  in  a corner,  took  their  places 
at  the  Fellows’  table,  and  sat  down  amid  the  collective  wisdom 
of  Greek  Lecturers  and  Regius  Professors,  as  though  they  had 
been  mere  mortals  like  themselves. 

Scarcely  had  the  long  Latin  grace  concluded,  when  Webber, 
leaning  forward,  enjoined  his  friends,  in  a very  audible  whisper, 
that  if  they  intended  to  dine  no  time  was  to  be  lost. 

“We  have  but  little  ceremony  here,  gentlemen,  and  all  we 
ask  is  a fair  start,”  said  he  as  he  drew  over  the  soup,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  help  himself. 

The  advice  was  not  thrown  away,  for  each  man,  with  an  alac- 
rity a campaign  usually  teaches,  made  himself  master  of  some 
neighboring  dish— a very  quick  interchange  of  good  things 
speedily  following  the  appropriation.  It  was  in  vain  that 
the  Senior  Lecturer  looked  aghast — that  the  Professor  of 
Astronomy  frowned;  the  whole  table,  indeed,  were  thunder- 
struck— even  to  the  poor  Vice-Provost  himself,  who,  albeit  given 
to  the  comforts  of  the  table,  could  not  lift  a morsel  to  his  mouth, 
but  muttered  between  his  teeth:  “ May  the  devil  admire  me, 
but  they’re  dragoons.”  The  first  shock  of  surprise  over,  the  por- 
ters proceeded  to  inform  them  that  except  Fellows  of  the  Uni- 
versity or  Fellow-commoners,  none  were  admitted  to  the  table. 
Webber,  however,  assured  them  that  it  was  a mistake,  there  be- 
ing nothing  in  the  statute  to  exclude  the  14th  Light  Dragoons,  as 
he  was  prepared  to  prove.  Meanwhile  dinner  proceeded;  Power 
and  his  party  performing  with  great  self-satisfaction  upon  the  sir- 
loins and  saddles  about  them,  regretting  only,  from  time  to  time, 
that  there  was  a most  unaccountable  absence  of  wine,  and  sug- 
gested the  propriety  of  napkins  whenever  they  should  dine  there 
again.  Whatever  chagrin  these  unexpected  guests  caused  among 
their  entertainers  of  the  upper  table  in  the  lower  part  of  the  hall  the 
laughter  was  loud  and  unceasing,  and  long  before  the  hour  con- 
cluded the  Fellows  took  their  departure,  leaving  to  Master  Frank 
Webber  the  task  of  doing  the  honors  alone  and  unassisted. 
When  summoned  before  the  Board  for  the  offense  on  the  follow- 
ing morning,  Webber  excused  himself  by  throwing  the  blame 
upon  his  friends,  with  whom,  he  said,  nothing  short  of  a per*, 
sonal  quarrel — a thing  for  a reading  man  not  to  be  thought  of— 
could  have  prevented  intruding  in  the  manner  related.  Nothing 
less  than  his  tact  could  have  saved  him  on  this  occasion,  and  at 
last  he  carried  the  day;  while,  by  an  act  of  the  Board,  the  14th 
^ ipht  Dragoons  were  pronounced  the  most  insolent  corps  in  the 
^service 

An  adventure  of  his,  however,  got  wind  about  this  time,  and 
served  to  enlighten  many  persons  as  to  his  real  character,  who 
had  hitherto  been  most  lenient  in  their  expressions  ahout  his;* 


92 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


Our  worthy  tutor,  with  a zeal  for  our  welfare  far  more  praise- 
worthy than  successful,  was  in  the  habit  of  siunmoning  to  his 
chambers,  on  certain  mornings  of  the  week,  his  various  pupils, 
whom  he  lectured  in  the  books  for  the  approaching  examina-  . 
tions.  Now,  as  these  seances  were  held  at  six  o’clock  in  the  win- 
ter as  well  as  summer,  in  a cold,  fireless  chamber — ^the  lecturer 
lying  snug  amid  his  blankets,  while  we  stood  shivering  around 
the  walls — the  ardor  of  learning  must,  indeed,  have  proved  strong, 
that  prompted  a regular  attendance.  As  to  Frank,  he  would 
have  as  soon  thought  of  attending  chapel  as  of  presenting  him« 
self  on  such  an  occasion.  Not  so  with  me.  I had  not  yet  grown 
hackneyed  enough  to  fly  in  the  face  of  authority,  and  I fre-  • 
qently  left  the  whist  table,  or  broke  off  in  a song  to  hurry  over 
to  the  Doctor’s  chambers  and  spout  Homer  and  Hesiod.  I suf- 
fered on  in  patience,  till  at  last  the  bore  became  so  insupporta- 
ble that  I told  my  sorrows  to  my  friend,  who  listened  to  me  out, 
and  promised  me  succor. 

It  so  chanced  that  upon  some  evening  in  each  week  Dr, 
Mooney  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  some  friends  who  resided  a 
short  distance  from  town,  and  spending  the  night  at  their  house. 
He,  of  course,  did  not  lecture  the  following  morning — a paper 
placard  announcing  no  lecture,  being  fixed  at  the  door  on  such 
occasions.  Frank  waited  patiently  till  he  perceived  the  Doctor 
affixing  this  announcement  upon  the  door  one  evening;  and  no 
sooner  had  he  left  College  than  he  withdrew  the  paper,  and  de- 
parted. 

On  the  next  morning  he  rose  early,  and  concealing  himself  on 
the  staircase,  waited  the  arrival  of  the  venerable  damsel  who 
acted  as  servant  to  the  Doctor.  No  sooner  had  she  opened  the 
door  and  groped  her  way  into  the  sitting-room,  than  Frank 
crept  forward,  and  stealing  , gently  into  the  bedroom,  sprung 
into  the  bed,  and  wrapt  himself  up  in  the  blankets.  The  great 
bell  boomed  forth  at  six  o’clock,  and  soon  after  the  sound  of  feet  ^ 
was  heard  upon  the  stairs.  One  by  one  they  came  along,  and  . 
gradually  the  room  was  filled  with  cold  and  shivering  wretches, 
more  than  half  asleep,  and  trying  to  arouse  themselves  into  an 
approach  to  attention.  ' 

“ Who’s  there?”  said  Frank,  mimicking  the  Doctor’s  voice,  as 
he  yawned  three  or  four  times  in  succession,  and  turned  in  the 
bed. 

“ Collisson,  O’Malley,  Nesbit,”  etc.,  said  a number  of  voices, 
anxious  to  have  all  the  merit  such  a penance  could  confer. 

‘‘ Where’s  Webber?” 

‘‘Absent,  sir,”  chorused  the  whole  party. 

‘‘Sorry  for  it,”  said  the  mock  Doctor;  “ Webber  is  a man  of 
first-rate  capacity,  and  were  he  only  to  apply,  I am  not  certain 
to  what  eminence  his  abilities  might  raise  him.  Come,  Collis-  ■ 
son — any  three  angles  of  a triangle  are  equal  to — are  equal  to — 
what  are  they  equal  to  ?”  Here  he  yawned  as  though  he  would 
dislocate  his  jaw. 

“ Any  three  angles  of  a triangle  are  ('qual  to  two  right 
angles,”  said  Collisson  in  the  usual  sing-song  tone  of  a freshman. 

As  he  proceeded  to  prove  the  proposition,  his  monotonous  i 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


93 


tone  seemed  to  have  lulled  the  Doctor  into  a doze,  for  in  a few 
minutes  a deep,  long-drawn  snore  announced  from  the  close 
curtains  that  he  listened  no  longer.  After  a little  time,  how- 
ever, a snort  from  the  sleeper  awoke  him  suddenly,  and  he  called 
out: 

“ Go  on;  Fm  waiting.  Do  you  think  I can  arouse  at  this  hour 
of  the  morning  for  nothing  but  to  listen  to  your  bungling  ? Can 
no  one  give  me  a. free  translation  of  the  passage?” 

This  digression  from  mathematics  to  classics  did  not  surprise 
the  hearers,  though  it  somewhat  confused  them,  no  one  being 
precisely  aware  what  the  line  in  question  might  be. 

“ Try  it,  Nesbit — you,  O’Malley — silent  all — really  this  is  too 
bad;”  an  indistinct  muttering  here  from  the  crowd  was  folk) wed 
by  an  announcement  from  the  Doctor,  that  “ the  spc^aker  was 
an  aeis,  and  his  head  a turnip!  Not  one  of  you  capable  of  trans- 
lating a chorus  from  Euripides — ‘ Ou,  ou,  papai,’  &c.,  which, 
after  all,  means  no  more  than-  Oh  whiliehu,  murder,  why  did 
you  die,’  &c.  What  are  you  laughing  at,  gentlemen?  May  I 
ask,  does  it  become  a set  of  ignorant,  ill-informed  savages — yes, 
savages,  I repeat  the  word — to  behave  in  this  manner  ? Webber 
is  the  only  man  I have  with  common  intellect — the  only  man 
among  you  capable  of  distinguishing  himself.  But  as  for  you 
— I’ll  bring  you  before  the  Board — I’ll  write  to  your  friends — I’ll 
stop  your  college  indulgences — I’ll  confine  you  to  the  wall — I’ll 
be  damned,  eh ” 

This  lapse  confused  him;  he  stammered,  stuttered,  endeavored 
to  recover  himself,  but  by  this  time  he  had  approached  the  bed, 
just  at  the  moment  when  Master  Frank,  well  knowing  Vhat  he 
might  expect  if  detected,  had  bolted  from  the  blankets  and 
rushed  from  the  room.  In  an  instant  we  were  in  pursuit;  but 
he  regained  his  chambers,  and  double-locked  the  door  before  we 
could  overtake  him,  leaving  us  to  ponder  over  the  insolent  tirade 
we  had  so  patiently  submitted  to. 

That  morning  the  affair  got  wind  all  over  the  college.  As  for 
us,  we  were  scarcely  so  much  laughed  at  as  the  Doctor;  the 
world  wisely  remembering,  if  such  were  the  nature  of  our  morn- 
ing’s orisons,  we  might  nearly  as  profitably  have  remained  snug 
in  our  quarters. 

Such  was  our  life  in  old  Trinity;  and  strange  enough  it  is  that 
one  should  feel  tempted  to  the  confession;  but  I really  must  ac- 
knowledge these  were,  after  all,  happy  times;  and  I.  look  back 
upon  them  with  mingled  pleasure  and  sadness.  The  noble  lord 
who  so  pathetically  lamented  that  the  devil  was  not  so  strong  in 
him  as  he  used  to  be  forty  years  before,  has  an  echo  in  my  re- 
grets, that  the  student  is  not  as  young  in  me  as  when  those  scenes 
were  enacting  of  which  I write. 

Alas,  and  alack!  those  fingers  that  were  wont  to  double  up  a 
watchman,  are  now  doubled  up  in  gout;  the  ankles  that  once 
astonished  the  fair,  now  only  interest  the  faculty;  the  very  jests 
that  set  the  table  in  a roar,  are  became  as  threadbare  as  my 
dress  “ continuations;”  and  I,  Charles  O’Malley,  having  passed 
through  every  gradation  of  coming  years,  from  long  coun- 
try dances  to  short  whist— from  nine  times  nine,  and  one 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


j4 

cheer  more,  to  weak  negus,  and  a fit  of  coughing  for  chorus-^ 
find  myself  at  the  wrong  side  of — — But  stop,  this  is  becoming 
personal;  so  I shall  conclude  my  chapter;  and  with  a bow  as 
graceful  as  rheumatism  permits,  say  to  one  and  all  my  kind 
readers,  for  a brief  season,  adieu. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  INVITATION — THE  WAGER.  * 

I WAS  sitting  at  breakfast  with  Webber,  a few  mornings  after 
the  mess  dinner  I liave  spoken  of,  when  Power  came  in  hastily. 

“Ha,  the  very  man!”  said  he.  “I  say,  O’Malley,  here’s  an 
invitation  for  you  from  Sir  George,  to  dine  on  Friday.  He  de- 
sired me  to  say  a thousand  civil  things  about  his  not  having 
made  you  out,  regrets  that  he  was  not  at  home  when  you  called 
yesterday,  and  all  that.  By  Jove,  I know  nothing  like  the 
favor  you  stand  in;  and,  as  for  Miss  Dashwood,  faith  the  fair 
Lucy  blushed  and  tore  her  glove  in  the  most  approved  style 
when  the  old  General  began  his  laudations  of  you.” 

“ Pooh,  nonsense,”  said  I;  “ that  silly  affair  in  the  west.” 

“ Oh,  very  probably;  there’s  reason  the  less  for  your  looking 
so  excessively  conscious.  But  I must  tell  you,  in  all  fairness, 
that  you  have  no  chance;  nothing  short  of  a dragoon  will  go 
down.” 

“ Be  assured,”  said  I,  somewhat  nettled,  “my  pretensions  do 
not  aspire  to  the  fair  Miss  Dashwood.” 

“ Taut  mieux  et  taut  pis,  mon  cher.  I wish  to  Heaven  mine 
did;  and,  By  St.  Patrick,  if  I only  played  the  knight-errant  half 
as  gallantly  as  yourself,  I should  not  relinquish  my  claims  to  the 
Secretary -at- War  himself.” 

“What  the  devil  brought  the  old  General  down  to  your  wild 
regions?”  inquired  Webber. 

“ To  contest  the  county.” 

“A  bright  thought,  truly.  When  a man  was  looking  for  a 
seat,  whv  not  try  a place  where  the  law  is  occasionally  heard 
of?” 

“lam  sure  I can  give  you  no  information  on  that  head;  nor 
> have  I ever  heard  how  Sir  George  came  to  learn  that  such  a 
; place  as  Galway  existed.” 

“I  believe  I can  enlighten  you,”  said  Power.  “ Lady  Dash- 
wood— rest  her  soul — came  west  of  the  Shannon;  she  had  a 
large  property  somewhere  in  Mayo,  and  owned  some  hundred 
acres  of  swamp,  with  some  thousand  starving  tenantry  there- 
upon, that  people  dignified  as  an  estate  in  Connaught.  This  first 
seggested  to  him  the  notion  of  setting  up  for  the  county;  proba- 
bly supposing  that  the  people  who  never  paid  in  rent  might  like 
to  do  so  in  gratitude.  How  he  was  undeceived,  O’Malley  there 
can  inform  us.  Indeed,  I believe  the  worthy^  General,  who  was 
confoundedly  hard  up  when  he  married,  expected  to  have  got  a 
great  fortune,  and  little  anticipated  the  three  Chancery  suits  he 
succeeded  to,  nor  the  fourteen  rent-charges  to  his  wife’s  rela- 
tives that  made  up  the  bulk  of  the  do  wer. 

It  was  an  unlucky  hit  for  him  when  he  fell  in  with  tiie  ol(i 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


95 


maid  at  Bath;  and  had  she  lived,  he  must  have  gone  to  the  Colo- 
nies. But  the  Lord  took  her  one  day,  and  Major  Dashwood  was 
himself  again.  The  Duke  of  York,  the  story  goes,  saw  him  at 
Hounslow  during  a review — was  much  struck  with  his  air  and 
appearance— made  some  inquiries — found  him  to  be  of  excellent 
family  and  irreproachable  conduct — made  him  aid-de-camp — 
and,  in  fact,  made  his  fortune.  I do  not  believe  that,  while  do- 
ing so  kind,  he  could  by  possibility  have  done  a more  popular 
thing.  Every  man  in  the  army  rejoiced  at  his  good  fortune;  so 
that,  after  all,  though  he  has  had  some  liard  rubs,  he  has  come 
well  through,  the  onl}"  vestige  of  his  unfortunate  matrimonial 
connection  being  a correspondence  kept  up  by  a maiden  sister  of 
his  late  wife  with  him.  She  insists  upon  claiming  the  ties  of 
kindred  upon  about  twenty  family  eras  during  the  year,  when 
she  regularly  writes  a most  loving  and  ill-spelled  epistle,  con- 
taining the  latest  information  from  Mayo,  with  all  paticulars  of 
the  Macan  family,  of  which  she  is  a worthy  member.  To  her 
constant  hints  of  the  acceptable  nature  of  certain  small  remit- 
tances, the  poor  General  is  never  inattentive,  but  to  the  pleasing 
prospect  of  a visit  in  the  flesh  from  Miss  Judy  Macan  the  good 
man  is  dead.  In  fact,  nothing  short  of  being  broke  by  a gen- 
eral court-martial  could  at  all  complete  his  sensations  of  horror  at 
such  a stroke  of  fortune;  and  I am  not  certain,  if  choice  were  al- 
lowed him,  that  he  would  not  prefer  the  latter.” 

“ Then  he  has  never  yet  seen  her?”  said  Webber. 

“ Never,”  replied  Power;  “ and  he  hopes  to  leave  Ireland  with- 
out that  blessing,  the  prospect  of  which,  however  remote  and 
unlikely,  has,  I know  well,  more  than  once  terrified  him  since 
his  arrival.” 

“I  say.  Power,  and  has  your  worthy  General  sent  me  a card 
for  his  ball  ?” 

‘‘  Not  through  me.  Master  Frank.” 

“ Well,  now,  I call  that  devilish  shabby,  do  you  know.  He 
asks  O’Malley  there  from  my  chambers,  and  never  notices  the 
other  man,  the  superior  partner  in  the  firm.  Eh,  O’Malley, 
what  say  you  ?” 

“Why,  I didn’t  know  you  were  acquainted.” 

“And  who  said  we  were?  It  was  his  fault  though  entirely 
that  we  were  not.  I am,  as  I have  ever  been,  the  most  easy  fel- 
low in  the  world  on  that  score — never  give  myself  airs  to  military 
people — endure  anything,  everything — and  you  see  the  result — 
hard,  ain’t  it!” 

“ But,  Webber,  Sir  George  must  really  be  excused  in  this  mat- 
ter. He  has  a daughter — a most  attractive,  lovely  daughter — 
just  at  that  budding,  unsuspecting  age  when  the  heart  is  most 
susceptible  of  impressions;  and  where,  let  me  ask,  could  she  run 
such  a risk  as  in  the  chance  of  a casual  meeting  with  the  re- 
doubted lady-killer.  Master  Frank  Webber?  If  he  has  not  sought 
you  out,  then  here  be  his  apology.” 

“ A very  strong  case,  certainly,”  said  Frank;  “but  still  had 
he  confided  his  critical  position  to  my  honor  and  secrecy,  he 
might^have  depended  on  me;  now,  having  taken  the  other"  liAe 


96 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


Well,  what  then 

“ Why,  he  must  abide  the  consequences.  I’ll  make  fierce  love 
to  Louisa;  isn’t  that  the  name  ?” 

‘‘  Lucy,  so  please  you.” 

“ Well,  be  it  so — to  Lucy — talk  the  little  girl  into  a most  de- 
plorable attachment  for  me.” 

“ But  how,  may  I ask,  and  when  ?” 

“ I’ll  begin  at  the  ball,  man.” 

‘‘Why,  I thought  you  said  you  were  not  going.” 

“ There  you  mistake  seriously.  I merely  said  that  I had  not 
beee  invited.” 

“ Then,  of  course,”  said  I,  “ Webber,  you  can’t  think  of  going, 
in  any  case,  on  my  account.” 

“ My  very  dear  friend,  I go  entirely  upon  my  own . I not  only 
shall  go,  but  I intend  to  have  the  most  particular  notice  and  at- 
tention paid  me.  I shall  be  prime  favorite  with  Sir  George — 
kiss  Lucy ” 

“Come,  come;  this  is  too  strong.” 

“ What  do  you  bet  I don’t?  There  now;  I’ll  giv®  you  a pony 
a piece  I do.  Do  you  say  done  ?” 

“ That  you  kiss  Miss  Dashwood,  and  are  not  kicked  down- 
stairs for  your  pains;  are  those  the  terms  of  the  wager  ?”  inquir- 
ed Power. 

“With  all  my  heart.  That  I kiss  Miss  Dashwood,  and  am  not 
kicked  down-stairs  for  my  pains.” 

“ Then  I say  done.” 

“ And  with  you,  too,  O’Malley.” 

“ I thank  you,”  said  I,  coldly;  “ I’m  not  disposed  to  make  such 
a return  for  Sir  George  Dashwood’s  hospitality  as  to  make  an  in- 
sult to  his  family  the  subject  of  a bet.” 

“Why,  man,  what  are  you  dreaming  of?  Miss  Dashwood 
will  not  refuse  my  chaste  salute.  Come,  Power,  I’ll  give  you 
the  other  fifty.” 

“ Agreed,”  said  he;  “at  the  same  time,  understand  me  dis- 
tinctly— that  I hold  myself  perfectly  eligible  to  winning  the 
wager  by  my  own  interference;  for,  if  you  do  kiss  her,  by  Jove, 

I’ll  perform  the  remainder  of  the  compact.” 

“ So  I understand  the  agreement,”  said  Webber,  arranging  his 
curls  before  the  looking-glass.  “ Well,  now,  who’s  for  Howth  ? 
the  drag  will  be  here  in  half  an  hour.” 

“ Not  I,”  said  Power;  “ I must  return  to  the  barracks.” 

“ Nor  I,”  said  I,  “ for  I shall  take  this  opportunity  of  leaving 
my  Qard  upon  Sir  George  Dashwood.” 

“ 1 have  won  my  fifty,  however,”  said  Power,  as  we  walked 
out  into  the  courts.  ; 

“I  am  not  quite  certain ” . 1 

“ Why,  the  devil,  he  would  not  risk  a broken  neck  for  that 
sum;  besides,  if  he  did,  he  loses  the  bet.” 

“ He’s  a devilish  keen  fellow.” 

“Let  him  be.  In  any  case,  I am  determined  to  be  on  my 
guard  here.”  ^ 

So  chatting,  we  strolled  along  to  the  Royal  Hospital,  when,  % 
having  dropped  my  pasteboard,  I returned  to  the  College. 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


m 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  BALL. 

I HAVE  often  dressed  for  a stc»rmmg  party  with]  less  of  trepi- 
dation than  I felt  on  the  evening  of  Sir  George  Dash  wood’s  ball. 
Since  the  eventful  day  of  the  election  I had  never  seen  Miss 
Dash  wood;  therefore,  as  to  what  precise  position  I might  occupy 
in  her  favor,  was  a matter  of  great  doubt  in  my  mind  and  great 
import  to  my  happiness.  That  I myself  loved  her  was  a matter 
of  which  all  the  badinage  of  my  friends  regarding  her  made  me 
painfully  conscious;  but  that,  in  our  relative  positions,  such  an 
attachment  was  all  but  hopeless,  I could  not  disguise  from  my- 
self. Young  as  I was,  I well  knew  to  what  a heritage  of  debt, 
law-suit,  and  difficulty  I was  born  to  succeed.  In  my  own  re- 
sources and  means  of  advancement  I had  no  confidence  what- 
ever, had  even  the  profession  to  which  I was  destined  been  more 
of  my  choice.  I daily  felt  that  it  demanded  greater  exertions,  if 
not  far  greater  abilities,  than  I could  command  to  make  success 
at  all  likely;  and  then,  even  if  such  a result  were  in  store,  years, 
at  least,  must  elaspe  before  it  could  happen,  and  where  would 
she  then  be,  and  would  I — where  the  ardeut  affection  I now  felt 
and  gloried  in — perhaps  all  the  more  for  its  desperate  hopeless- 
ness— when  the  sanguine  and  buoyant  spirit  to  combat  with  dif- 
ficulties which  youth  suggests  and  which  later  manhood  refuses, 
should  have  passed  away  ? And,  even  if  all  these  survived  the  toil, 
and  labor  of  anxious  days  and  painful  night,  what  of  her  ? Alas! 
I now  reflected  that  although  only  of  my  own  age,  her  manner  to 
me  had  taken  all  that  tone  of  superiority  and  patronage  which  an 
elder  assumes  toward  one  younger,  and  which,  in  the  spirit 
of  protection  it  proceeds  "upon,,  essentially  bars  up  every 
inlet  to  a dearer  or  warmer  feeling — at  least  when  the  lady  plays 
the  former  part.  What  then  is  to  be  done?  thought  I;  forget 
her  ? but  how  ? how  shall  I renounce  all  my  plans  and  unweave 
the  web  of  life  I have  been  spreading  around  me  for  many  a day, 
without  that  one  golden  thread  that  lent  it  more  than  half  its 
brilliancy  and  all  its  attraction  ? But  then  the  alternate  is  even 
worse,  if  I encourage  expectations  and  nurtoe  hopes  never  to  be 
realized.  Well,  we  meet  to-night,  after  a long  and  eventful  ab- 
sence: let  my  future  fate  be  ruled  by  the  results  of  this  meet- 
ing. If  Lucy  Dash  wood  does  care  for  me,  if  I can  detect  in  her 
manner  enough  to  show  me  that  my  affection  may  meet  a re- 
turn, the  whole  effort  of  my  life  shall  be  to  make  her  mine;  if 
not — if  my  own  feelings  be  all  that  I have  to  depend  upon  to 
extort  a reciprocal  affection — then  shall  I take  my  last  look  of 
her,  and  wMi  it  the  first  and  brightest  dream  of  happiness  my 
life  has  hitherto  presented. 


It  need  not  be  wondered  at  if  the  brilliant  coup  d^ocil  of  the 
ball-room,  as  I entered,  struck  me  with  astonishment^  accus- 
tomed as  I had  hitherto  been  to  nothing  more^ magnificent  than 
au  evening  party  of  squires  and  their  squiresses,  or  the  annual 


98 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


garrison  ball  at  the  barracks.  The  glare  of  wax  lights,  the 
well-furnished  saloons,  the  glitter  of  uniforms,  and  the  blaze  of 
jeweled  and  satined  dames,  with  the  clang  of  military  music, 
was  a species  of  enchanted  atmosphere,  which,  breathing  for 
the  first  time,  rarely  fails  to  intoxicate.  Never  before  had  I 
seen  so  much  beauty;  lovely  faces,  dressed  in  all  the  seductive 
fiattery  of  smiles,  were  on  every  side;  and,  as  I walked  from 
room  to  room,  I felt  how  much  more  fatal  to  a man’s  peace  and 
heart’s  ease  the  whispered  words  and  silent  glances  of  those  fair 
damsels,  than  all  the  loud  gayety  and  boisterous  freedom  of  our 
country  belles,  who  sought  to  take  the  heart  by  storm  and  es- 
calade. 

As  yet  I had  seen  neither  Sir  George  nor  his  daughter,  and, 
while  I looked  on  e ^ery  side  for  Miss  Lucy  Dashwood,  it  was 
with  a beating  and  anxious  heart  I longed  to  see  how  she  would 
bear  comparison  with  the  blaze  of  beauty  around. 

Just  at  this  moment  a very  gorgeously-dressed  hussar  stepped 
from  a door- way  beside  me,  as  if  to  make  a passage  for  some 
one,  and  the  next  moment  she  appeared,  leaning  upon  the  arm 
of  another  lady.  One  look  was  all  that  I had  time  for,  when 
she  recognized  me. 

“Ah,  Mr.  O’Malley — how  happy — has  Sir  George— has  my 
father  seen  you  ?” 

“ I have  only  arrived  this  moment;  I trust  he  is  quite  well  ?” 

“ Oh,  yes,  thank  you ” 

“ I beg  your  ])ardon  with  all  humility.  Miss  Dashwood,”  said 
the  hussar,  in  a tone  of  the  most  knightly  courtesy,  “ but  they 
are  waiting  for  us.” 

“ But,  Captain  Fortescue,  you  must  excuse  me  one  moment 
more.  Mr.  Lechmere,  will  you  do  me  the  kindness  to  find  out 
Sir  George?  Mr.  O’Malley — Mr.  Lechmere.”  Here  she  said 
something  in  French  to  her  companion,  but  so  rapidly  that  I 
could  not  detect  what  it  was,  but  merely  heard  the  reply — “pas 
maZ” — which,  as  the  lady  continued  to  canvass  me  most  de- 
liberately through  her  eye-glass,  I suppose  referred  to  me. 
“ And  now.  Captain  Fortescue  ” — and  with  a look  of  most  court- 
eous kindness  to  me,  she  disappeared  in  the  crowd. 

The  gentleman  to  whose  guidance  I was  intrusted  was  one  of  • 
the  aid-de-camps,  and  was  not  long  in  finding  Sir  George.  No 
sooner  had  the  good  old  General  heard  my  name,  than  he  held 
out  both  his  hands,  and  shook  mine  most  heartily. 

“ At  last,  O’Malley,  at  last  I am  able  to  thank  you  for  the 
greatest  service  ever  man  rendered  me.  He  saved  Lucy,  my 
lord,  rescued  her  under  circumstances  where  anything  short  of 
his  courage  and  determination  must  have  cost  her  her  life.” 

“ Ah  I very  pretty,  indeed,”  said  a stiff  old  gentleman  ad- 
dressed, as  he  bowed  a most  superbly-powdered  scalp  before  me; 
“ most  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance.” 

“ Who  is  he  ?”  added  he,  in  nearly  as  loud  a tone  to  Sir  George. 

“Mr.  O’Malley,  of  O’Malley  Castle.” 

“ True,  I forgot — why  is  he  not  in  uniform  ?” 

“ Because,  ^nfo^tunate^’^  luy  lord,  we  don’t  him;  he’s  not 

In  the  army.” 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


**  Ha,  hat  thought  he  was,” 

**  You  dance,  O’Malley,  I suppose  ? I’m  sure  you’d  rather  be 
ov-er  there  than  hearing  all  my  protestations  of  gratitude,  sincere 
and  heartfelt  as  they  really  are.” 

“ Lechmere,  introduce  my  friend  Mr.  O’Malley;  get  him  a 
partner.” 

I had  not  followed  my  new  acquaintance  many  steps,  when 
Power  came  up  to  me,  “ I say,  Charley,”  cried"  he,  “I  have 
been  tormented  to  death  by  half  the  ladies  in  the  room,  to  pre-. 
sent  you  to  them,  and  have  been  in  quest  of  you  this  half  hour.' 
Your  brilliant  expldit  in  savage  land  has  made  you  a regular 
preux  chevalier;  and,  if  you  don’t  trade  on  that  adventure  to 
your  most  lasting  profit,  you  deserve  to  be — a lawyer.  Come 
along  here;  Lady  Muckleman,  the  Adjutant- General’s  lady  and 
chef,  has  four  Scotch  daughters  you  are  to  dance  with ; then  I am 
to  introduce  you  in  all  form  to  the  Dean  of  something’s  niece;  she 
is  a good-looking  girl,  and  has  two  livings  in  a safe  county.  Then 
there’s  the  Town-Major’s  wife,  and,  in  fact,  I have  several  en- 
gagements from  this  to  supper  time.” 

“ A thousand  thanks  for  all  your  kindnesses  in  prospective, 
but  I think,  perhaps,  it  were  right  I should  ask  Miss  Dashwood 
to  dance,  if  only  as  a matter  of  form;  you  understand?” 

‘‘And  if  Miss  Dashwood  should  say,  ‘ with  pleasure,  sir,’  only 
as  a matter  of  form;  you  understand,”  said  a silvery  voice  be- 
side me.  I turned  and  saw  Lucy  Dashwood,  who,  having  over- 
heard my  very  free  and  easy  suggestion,  replied  to  me  in  this 
manner. 

I here  blundered  out  my  excuses.  What  I said  and  whatl’did 
not  say,  I cannot  now  remember;  but,  certainly,  it  was  her  turn 
now  to  blush,  and  her  arm  trembled  within  mine  as  I led  her  to 
the  top  of  the  room.  In  the  little  opportunity  which  our  qua- 
drille presented  for  conversation,  I could  not  help  remarking 
that,  after  the  surprise  of  her  first  meeting  with  }ne,  Miss  Dash- 
wood’s  manner  became  gradually  more  and  more  reserved,  and 
that  there  was  an  evident  struggle  between  her  wish  to  appear 
grateful  for  what  had  occurred  with  a sense  of  the  necessity  of 
not  incurring  a greater  degree  of  intimacy.  Such  was  my  im- 
pression, at  least,  and  such  the  conclusion  I drew  from  a certain 
quiet  tone  in  her  manner,  that  went  further  to  wound  my  feel- 
ings, and  mar  my  happiness,  than  any  other  line  of  conduct 
toward  me  could  possibly  have  effected. 

Our  quadrille  over,  I was  about  to  conduct  her  to  a seat,  when 
Sir  George  came  hurriedly  up,  his  face  greatly  flushed,  and  be- 
traying every  semblance  of  high  excitement. 

“Dear  papa,  has  anything  occurred?  pray,  what  is  it?”  in- 
quired she. 

He  smiled  faintly,  and  replied:  “Nothing  very  serious,  my 
dear,  that  I should  alarm  you  in  this  way;  but,  certainly,  a more 
disagreeable  contretemps  could  scarcely  occur.” 

“ Do  tell  me;  what  can  it  be?” 

“ Read  this,”  said  he,  presenting  a very  diriy-looking  note, 
which  bore  the  mark  of  a red  wafer,  most  infernally  plain  upon 
its  outside. 


.00 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


Miss  Dashwood  unfolded  the  billet,  and  after  a moment’s 
silence,  instead  of  participating,  as  he  expected,  in  her  father’s 
feeling  of  distress  burst  out  a-laughing,  while  she  said:  “ Why, 
really,  papa,  I do  not  see  why  this  should  put  you  out  much, 
after  all.  Aunt  may  be  somewhat  of  a character,  as  her  note 
evinces,  but  after  a few  days ” 

“ Nonsense,  child;  there  is  nothing  in  this  world  I have  such 
a dread  of  as  that  confounded  woman — and  to  come  at  such  a 
time.” 

“When  does  she  spgak  of  paying  her  visit?” 

“ I knew  you  had  not  read  the  note,”  said  Sir  George,  hastily; 
“ she’s  coming  here  to-night,  is  on  her  way  this  instant,  perhaps. 
What  is  to  be  done?  If  she  forces  her  way  in  here,  I shall  go 
deranged  outright.  O’Malley,  my  boy,  read  this  note;  and  you 
will  not  feel  surprised  if  I appear  in  the  humor  you  see  me.” 

I took  the  billet  from  the  hands  of  Miss  Dashwood,  and  read 
as  follows: 

“Dear  Brother, — When  this  reaches  your  hand  I’ll  not  be 
far  off — I am  on  my  way  up  to  town,  to  be  under  Dr.  Dease  for 
the  ould  complaint.  Crowley  mistakes  my  case  entirely,  he  says 
it’s  nothing  but  religion  and  wind.  Father  Magrath,  who  under- 
stands a good  deal  about  females,  thinks  otherwise — but  God 
knows  who’s  right.  Expect  me  to  tea,  and  with  love  to  Lucy, 
believe  me  yours,  in  haste,  Judith  Macan. 

“ Let  the  sheets  ne  well  aired  in  my  room;  and  if  you  have  a 
spare  bed,  perhaps  we  could  prevail  upon  Father  Magrath  to 
stop  too.” 

I scarcely  could  contain  my  laughter  till  I got  to  the  end  of 
this  very  free  and  easy  epistle;  when  at  last  I burst  forth  in  a 
hearty  fit,  in  which  I was  joined  by  Miss  Dashwood. 

From  the  account  Power  had  given  me  in  the  morning,  I had 
no  difficulty  in  guessing  that  the  writer  was  the  maiden  sister  of 
the  late  Ladj^  Dashwood,  and  for  whose  relationship  Sir  George 
had  ever  testified  the  greatest  dread,  even  at  the  distance'  of  two 
hundred  miles;  and  for  whom,  in  any  nearer  intimacy,  he  was 
in  nowise  prepared. 

“Isay,  Lucy,”  said  he,  “there’s  only  one  thing  to  be  done; 
if  this  horrid  woman  does  arrive,  let  her  be  shown  to  her  room, 
and  for  the  few  days  of  her  stay  in  town,  we’ll  neither  see  nor  be 
seen  by  any  one.” 

Without  waiting  for  a reply.  Sir  George  was  turning  away  to 
give  the  necessary  directions,  when  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room was  flung  open,  and  the  servant  announced,  in  his  loudest 
voice,  “ Miss  Macan.”  Never  shall  I forget  the  poor  General’s 
look  of  horror  as  the  words  reached  him;  for,  as  yet,  he  was  too 
far  to  catch  even  a glimpse  of  its  fair  owner.  As  for  me,  I was 
already  so  much  interested  in  seeing  what  she  was  like,  that  I 
made  my  way  through  the  crowd  toward  the  door.  It  is  no 
common  occurrence  that  can  distract  the  various  occupations  of 
a crowded  ball-room,  where,  amid  the  crash  of  music  and  the 
din  of  conversation,  goes  on  the  soft,  low  voice  of  insinuating 
flattery,  or  the  light  flirtation  of  a first  acquaintance;  everjT 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


101 


clique,  every  coterie,  every  little  group  of  three  or  four,  has  its 
own  separate  and  private  interests,  forming  a little  world  of  its 
own,  and  caring  and  heeding  nothing  that  goes  on  around;  and, 
even  when  some  striking  character  or  illustrious  personage 
makes  his  entree,  the  attention  he  attracts  is  so  momentary  that 
the  buzz  of  conversation  is  scarcely,  if  at  all,  interrupted,  and 
the  business  of  pleasure  continues  to  flow  on.  Not  so  now, 
however.  No  sooner  had  the  servant  pronounced  the  magical 
name  of  Miss  Macan,  than  all  seemed  to  stand  still.  The  spell 
thus  exercised  over  the  luckless  General  seemed  to  have  ex- 
tended to  his  company,  for  it  was  with  difficulty  that  any  one 
could  continue  his  train  of  con  ^ersation,  while  every  eye  was 
directed  toward  the  door.  About  two  steps  in  advance  of  the 
servant,  who  still  stood,  door  in  hand,  was  a tall,  elderly  lady, 
dressed  in  an  antique  brocade  silk,  with  enormous  flowers  gaud- 
ily embroidered  upon  it.  Her  hair  was  powdered,  and  turned 
back,  in  the  fashion  of  fifty  years  before;  while  her  high  pointed 
and  heeled  shoes  completed  a costume  that  had  not  been  seen  for 
nearly  a century.  Her  short,  skinny  arms  were  bare,  and  partly 
covered  by  a falling  shower  of  old  point  lace,  while  on  her  hands 
she  wore  black  silk  mittens;  a pair  of  green  spectacles  scarcely 
dimmed  the  luster  of  a most  peering  pair  of  eyes,  to  whose  effect 
a very  palpable  touch  of  rouge  certainly  added  brilliancy.  There 
stood  this  most  singular  apparition,  holding  before  her  a fan 
about  the  size  of  a modern  tea-tray,  while,  at  each  repetition  of 
her  name  by  the  servant,  she  courtesied  deeply,  returning  the 
while  upon  the  gay  crowd  before  her  a very  curious  look 
of  maidenly  modesty  at  her  solitary  and  unprotected  position. 

As  no  one  had  ever  heard  of  the  fair  Judith,  save  one  or  two 
of  Sir  George’s  most  intimate  friends,  the  greater  part  of  the 
company  were  disposed  to  regard  Miss  Macan  as  some  one  who 
had  mistaken  the  character  of  the  invitation,  and  had  come  in 
a fancy  dress.  But  this  delusion  was  but  momentary,  as  Sir 
George,  armed  with  the  courage  of  despair,  forced  his  way 
through  the  crowd,  and  taking  her  hand  affectionately,  bid  her 
welcome  to  Dublin.  The  fair  Judy,  at  this,  threw  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  and  saluted  him  with  a hearty  smack  that  was  heard 
all  over  the  room. 

‘‘  Where’s  Lucy,  brother?  let  me  embrace  my  little  darling,’* 
said  the  lady,  in  an  accent  that  told  more  of  Miss  Macan  than  a 
three- volumcj  biography  could  have  done;  “ there  she  is.  I’m  sure; 
kiss  me,  my  honey.” 

This  office  Miss  Dashwood  performed  with  an  effort  at  courtesy 
really  admirable;  while,  taking  her  aunt’s  arm,  she  led  her  to  a 
sofa. 

It  needed  all  the  poor  General’s  tact  to  get  over  the  sensation 
of  this  most  malapropos  addition  to  his  party;  but,  by  degrees, 
the  various  groups  renewed  their  occupations,  although  many  a 
smile,  and  more  than  one  sarcastic  glance  at  the  sofa,  betrayed 
that  the  maiden  aunt  had  not  escaped  criticism. 

Power,  whose  propensity  for  fun  very  considerably  outstripped 
his  sense  of  decorum  to  his  commanding  officer,  had  already 


102 


OHAHLES  aMALLEY. 


made  his  way  toward  Miss  Dash  wood,  and  succeeded  in  obtain- 
ing a formal  introduction  to  Miss  Macan. 

“ I hope  you  will  do  me  the  favor  to  dance  next  set  with  me, 
Miss  Macan 

“ Eeally,  Captain,  it’s  very  polite  of  you;  but  you  must  excuse 
me;  I was  never  anything  great  in  quadrilles;  but  if  a reel,  or  a 
jig 

“ Oh,  dear,  aunt,  don’t  think  of  it,  I beg  of  you.” 

‘‘  Then  I’m  certain  you  waltz  ?”  said  Power, 

“ What  do  you  take  me  for,  young  man  ? I hope  I know  bet- 
ter; I wish  Father  Magrath  heard  you  ask  me  that  question,  and 
for  all  your  lace  jacket 

“ Dearest  aunt.  Captain  Power  didn’t  mean  to  offend  you;  I’m 
certain  he ” 

“ Well,  why  did  he  dare  to — soh,  sob — did  he  see  anything 
light  about  me  ? that  he — sob,  sob,  sob — oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!  is  it 
for  this  I came  up  from  my  little  peaceful  place  in  the  west  ? — 
sob,  sob,  sob — General,  George,  dear  Lucy,  my  love,  I’m  taken 
bad.  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear — is  there  any  whisky  negus?” 

Whatever  sympathy  Miss  Macan’s  sufferings  might  have 
excited  in  the  crowd  about  her  before,  this  last  question  totally 
routed  them,  and  a most  hearty  fit  of  laughter  broke  forth  from 
more  than  one  of  the  bystanders. 

At  length,  however,  she  was  comforted,  and  her  pacification 
completely  effected  by  Sir  George  setting  her  down  to  a whist- 
table.  From  this  moment  I lost  sight  of  her  for  above  two 
hours.  Meanwhile,  I had  little  opportunity  of  following  up  my 
intimacy  with  Miss  Dash  wood,  and,  as  I rather  suspected  that, 
on  more  than  one  occasion,  she  seemed  to  avoid  our  meeting,  I 
took  especial  care,  on  my  part,  to  spare  her  the  annoyance. 

For  one  instant  only  had  I any  opportunity  of  addressing  hc^r, 
and  then  there  was  such  an  evident  embarrassment  in  her 
manner  that  I readily  perceived  how  she  felt  circumstanced, 
and  that  the  sense  of  gratitude  to  one  whose  further  advances 
she  might  have  feared,  rendered  her  constrained  and  awkward. 
Too  true,  said  I,  she  avoids  me;  my  being  here  is  only  a source 
of  discomfort  and  pain  to  her;  therefore.  I’ll  take  my  leave,  and, 
whatever  it  may  cost  me,  never  to  return.  With  this  intention, 
resolving  to  wish  Sir  George  a very  good-night,  I sought  himont 
for  some  minutes.  At  length  I saw  him  in  a corner  conversing  with 
the  old  nobleman  to  whom  be  had  presented  me  early  in  the 
evening. 

“True,  upon  my  honor.  Sir  George,”  said  he;  “I  saw  it  my- 
self, and  she  did  it  just  as  dexterously  as  the  oldest  blackleg  in 
Paris.” 

“ Why,  you  don’t  mean  to  say  that  she  cheated  ?” 

“Yes,  but  I do,  though — turned  the  ace  every  time.  Lady 
Herbert  said  to  me:  ‘ Very  extraordinary  it  is — ^four  by  honors 
again.’  So  I looked,  and  then  I perceived  it — a very  old  trick  it 
is;  but  she  did  it  beautifully.  What’s  her  name  ?” 

“ Some  western  name,  I forget  said  the  poor  General,  ready 
to  die  with  shame. 


CHARLES  HMALLEY.  lOS 

**  Clever  old  woman,  very,”  said  the  old  Lord,  taking  a pinch 
of  snuff,  “but  revokes  too  often.” 

Supper  was  announced  at  this  critical  moment,  and  before  I 
had  further  thought  of  my  determination  to  escape,  I felt  myself 
hurried  along  in  the  crowd  toward  the  staircase.  The  party 
immediately  in  front  of  me  were  Power  and  Miss  Macan,  who 
now  appeared  reconciled,  and  certainly  testified  most  openly 
their  mutual  feelings  of  good-will. 

“ I say,  Charley,”  whispered  Power,  as  I came  along,  “it  is 
capital  fun — ^never  met  anything  equal  to  her;  but  the  poor 
General  never  will  live  through  it,  and  I’m  certain  of  ten  day’s 
arrest  for  this  night’s  proceeding.” 

“ Any  news  of  Webber  ?”  I inquired. 

“ Oh,  yes,  I fancy  I can  tell  something  of  him;  for  I heard  of 
some  one  presenting  himself,  and  being  refused  the  entree,  so 
that  Master  Frank  has  lost  his  money.  Sit  near  us,  I pray  you, 
at  supper;  we  must  take  care  of  the  dear  aunt  for  the  niece’s 
sake,  eh?” 

Not  seeing  the  force  of  this  reasoning,  I soon  separated  my- 
self from  them,  and  secured  a corner  at  a side- table.  Every 
supper  on  such  an  occasion  as  this,  is  the  same  scene  of  soiled 
white  muslin,  faded  fiowers,  fiushed  faces,  torn  gloves,  blushes, 
blanc-mange,  cold  chicken,  jelly,  sponge-cakes,  spooney  young 
gentlemen  doing  the  attentive,  and  watchful  mammas  calculat- 
ing what  precise  degree  of  propinquity  in  the  crush  is  safe  or 
seasonable  for  their  daughters,  to  the  mustached  and  unmarry- 
ing lovers  beside  them.  There  are  always  the  same  set  of  grati- 
fied elders,  like  the  benchers  in  King’s  Inn,  marched  up  to  the 
head  of  the  table,  to  eat,  drink,  and  be  happy — removed  from 
the  more  profane  looks  and  soft  speeches  of  the  younger  part  of 
the  creation. 

Then  there  are  the  oi  polloi  of  outcasts,  younger  sons  of  younger 
brothers,  tutors,  governesses,  portionless  cousins,  and  curates, 
all  formed  in  a phalanx  round  the  side-table,  whose  primitive 
habits  and  simple  tastes  are  evinced  by  their  all  eating  off  the 
sanfe  plate  and  drinking  from  nearly  the  same  wine-glass.  Too 
happy  if  some  better-off  acquaintence  at  the  long  table  invites 
them  to  “wine,”  though  the  ceremony  on  their  part  is  limited 
to  the  pantomime  of  drinking.  To  this  miserable  tiers  etat  I 
belonged,  and  bore  my  fate  with  unconcern;  for,  alas!  my  spirits 
were  depressed  and  my  heart  heavy.  Lucy’s  treatment  of  me 
was  every  moment  before  me,  contrasted  with  her  gay  and 
courteous  demeanor  to  all,  save  myself;  and  I longed  for  the 
moment  to  get  away. 

Never  had  I seen  her  looking  so  beautiful;  her  brilliant  eyes 
were  lit  with  pleasure,  and  her  smile  was  enchantment  itself. 
What  would  I not  have  given  for  one  moment’s  explanation,  as 
I took  my  leave  forever? — one  brief  avowal  of  my  love,  my 
unalterable,  devoted  love;  for  which  I sought  not  or  expected 
return,  but  merely  that  I might  not  be  forgotten. 

Such  were  my  thoughts,  when  a dialogue  quite  near  me 
aroused  me  from  my  reverie.  I was  not  long  in  detecting  the 
speakers,  who,  with  their  backs  turned  to  us,  were  seated  at  the 


104 


CBARLm  OMALLEY. 


great  table,  discussing  a very  liberal  allowance  of  pigeon  pie,  a 
flask  of  champagne  standing  between  them. 

“Don’t  now!  don’t,  I tell  ye,  it’s  little  ye  know  Galway,  or 
you  wouldn't  think  to  make  up  to  me  squeezing  my  foot.” 

“ Upon  my  soul,  you’re  an  angel,  a regular  angel;  I never  saw 
a woman  suit  my  fancy  before.” 

“ Oh,  behave  now,  Father  Magrath  says ^ 

“Who’s  he  ?” 

“ The  priest,  no  less.” 

“ Oh  I confound  him.” 

“Confound  Father  Magrath,  young  man.” 

“Well,  then,  Judy,  don’t  be  angry;  I only  meant  that  a dra- 
goon knows  rather  more  of  these  matters  than  a priest.” 

“ Well,  then,  I’m  not  so  sure  of  that.  But  anyhow  I’d  have  you 
to  remember  it  ain’t  a Widow  Malone  you  have  beside  you.” 

“ Never  heard  of  the  lady,”  said  Power. 

“ Sure  it’s  a song — poor  creature — it’s  a song  they  made  about 
her  in  the  North  Cork,  when  they  were  quartered  down  in  our 
country.” 

“ I wish  to  Heaven  you’d  sing  it.” 

“ What  will  you  give  me,  then,  if  I do  ?” 

“ Anything — everything — my  heart,  my  life.” 

“ I wouldn’t  give  a trauneen  for  all  of  them;  give  me  that  old 
green  ring  on  your  finger,  then.” 

“It’s  yours,”  said  Power,  placing  it  gracefully  upon  Miss  Ma- 
can’s  finger,  “ and  now  for  your  promise.” 

“ Maybe  my  brother  might  not  like  it.” 

“ He’d  be  delighted,”  said  Power,  “he  dotes  on  music.” 

“ Does  he,  now  ?” 

“ On  my  honor  he  does.” 

“Well,  mind  you  get  up  a good  chorus,  for  the  song  has  one, 
and  here  it  is.” 

“ Miss  Macan’s  song,”  said  Power,  tapping  the  table  with  his 
knife.  “ Miss  Macan’s  song,”  was  re-echoed  on  all  sides,  and  be- 
fore the  luckless  General  could  interfere,  she  had  begun.  How 
to  explain  the  air,  I know  not,  for  I never  heard  its  name,  but 
at  the  end  of  each  verse,  a species  of  echo  followed  the  last  wordy 
that  rendered  it  irresistilDly  ridiculous: 

“THE  WIDOW  MALONE.” 

“ Did  ye  hear  of  the  Whlow  Malone, 

I . Ohone! 

Who  lived  in  the  town  of  Athlone, 

Alone I 

Oh!  she  melted  the  hearts 

Of  the  swains  in  them  parts, 

So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohonel 

Of  lovers  she  had  a full  score, 

, , Or  mor«; 

And  fortunes  they  all  had  galore. 

In  sto'ffe; 


CHARLES  aMALLET. 


1D5 


^ / 

rrom  the  minister  down 
To  the  clerk  of  the  crown, 

All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone! 

, All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone. 

But  so  modest  was  Mrs.  Malone, 

’Twas  known  ^ 

No  one  ever  could  see  her  alone, 

Ohone! 

Xet  them  ogle  and  sigh. 

They  could  ne’er  catch  her  e/e, 

^ So  bashfu?  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone! 

So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone. 

**  ’Till  one  Mister  O’Brien  from  Clare, 

..  How  quare  f 

It’s  little  for  blushin’  they  care 

Down  there; 

Put  his  arm  round  her  waist, 

Gave  ten  kisses,  at  laste, 

* Oh,’  says  he,  ‘ you’re  my  Molly  Malone, 

My  own;’ 

♦Oh,’  says  he,  ‘you’re  my  Molly  Malone.* 

And  the  widow  they  all  thought  so  shy. 

My  eye! 

Ne’er  thought  of  a simper  or  sigh, 

For  why  ? 

But  * Lucius,’  says  she, 

* Since  you’ve  made  now  so  free. 

You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone.* 

Ohone! 

You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone.* 

There’s  a moral  contained  in  mv  song, 

Not  wrong; 

And  one  comfort  it’s  not  very  long, 

But  strong: 

If  for  widows  you  die, 

Larn  to  kissy  not  to  sigh; 

• For  they’re  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone, 

Ohone! 

Oh,  they’re  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone.” 

Never  did  song  create  such  a sensation  as  Miss  Macan’s,  and 
certainly  her  desires  as  to  the  chorus  were  followed  to  the  letter; 
for  the  “Widow  Malone,  ohone!”  resounded  from  one  end  of 
the  table  to  the  other,  amid  one  universal  shout  of  laughter. 
None  could  resist  the  ludicrous  effect  of  her  melody,  and  even 
poor  Sir  George,  sinking  under  the  disgrace  of  his  relationship, 
which  she  had  contrived  to  make  public  by  frequent  allusions  to 
her  dear  brother  the  “ General,”  yielded  at  last,  and  joined  in 
the  mirth  around  him. 

“ I insist  on  a copy  of  the  ‘ Widow,’  Miss  Macan,”  said  Power. 

“ To  be  sure;  give  me  a call  to-morrow;  let  me  see,  about  two, 
Father  Magrath  won’t  be  at  home,”  said  she,  with  a coquettish 
look. 


106 


CHARLES  aMALLET. 


“Where,  pray,  may  I pay  my  respects?” 

“ No.  22  South  Anne  street — very  respectable  lodgings.  I’ll 
write  the  address  in  your  pocket-book.” 

Power  produced  a card  and  pencil,  while  Miss  Macan  wrote  a 
few  lines,  saying,  as  she  handed  it; 

“ There,  now,  don’t  read  it  here  before  the  people;  they’ll 
think  it  mighty  indelicate  in  me  to  make  an  appointment.” 

Power  pocketed  the  card,  and  the  next  minute  Miss  Macan’g 
carriage  was  announced. 

Sir  George  Dash  wood,  who  little  flattered  himself  that  his  fair 
guest  had  any  intention  of  departure,  became  now  most  con- 
siderately attentive — ^reminded  her  of  the  necessity  of  muffling 
against  the  night  air — hoped  she  should  escape  cold,  and  wished 
a most  cordial  good-night,  with  a promise  of  seeing  her  early  the 
following  day. 

Notwithstanding  Power’s  ambition  to  engross  the  attention  of 
the  lady,  Sir  George  himself  saw  her  to  her  carriage,  and  only 
returned  to  the  room  as  a group  was  collected  around  the  gal- 
lant Captain,  to  whom  he  was  relating  some  capital  traits  of  his 
late  conquest;  for  such  he  dreamed  she  was. 

“ Doubt  it  who  will,”  said  he,  “ she  has  invited  me  to  call  on 
her  to-morrow — written  her  address  on  my  card — told  me 
the  hour  when  she  is  certain  of  being  alone.  See  here  I”  At 
these  words  he  pulled  forth  the  card,  and  handed  it  to  Lech- 
mere. 

Scarcely  were  the  eyes  of  the  other  thrown  upon  the  writing, 
when  he  said;  “ So,  this  isn’t  it  Power.” 

“ To  be  sure  it  is,  man,”  said  Power;  “ Anne  street  is  devilish 
seedy;  but  that’s  the  quarter.” 

“ Why,  confound  it,  man,”  said  the  other,  “ there’s  not  a word 
of  that  here.” 

“ Read  it  out,”  said  Power,  “ proclaim  aloud  my  victory.” 

Thus  urged,  Lechmere  read; 

“ Dear  P., — Please  pay  to  my  credit,  and  soon,  mark  ye,  the 
two  ponies  lost  this  evening.  I have  done  myself  the  pleasure 
of  enjoying  your  ball,  kissed  the  lady,  quizzed  the  papa,  and 
walked  into  the  cunning  Fred  Power, 

“ Yours, 

“ Frank  Webber. 

“ The  Widow  Malone,  ohone,  is  at  your  service.” 

Had  a thunderbolt  fallen  at  his  feet,  his  astonishment  could 
hot  have  equaled  the  result  of  this  revelation.  He  stamped, 
swore,  raved,  laughed,  and  almost  went  deranged.  The  joke 
was  soon  spread  through  the  room,  and  from  Sir  George  to  poor 
Lucy  now  covered  with  blushes  at  her  part  in  the  transaction, 
all  was  laughter  and  astonishment. 

“ Who  is  he  ? that  is  the  question,”  said  Sir  George,  who,  with 
all  the  ridicule  of  the  affair  hanging  over  him,  felt  no  common 
relief  at  the  discovery  of  the  imposition. 

“ A friend  of  O’Malley’s,”  said  Power,  delighted,  in  his  defeat, 
to  involve  another  with  himsolA 


CHARLES  OMALLEY.  107 

“ Indeed!”  said  the  General,  regarding  me  with  a look  of  a 
very  mingled  cast. 

“ Quite  true,  sir,”  said  I,  replying  to  the  accusation  that  his 
manner  implied,  ‘‘  but  equally  so  that  I neither  knew  of  his  plot 
nor  recognized  him  when  here.” 

“I  am  perfectly  sure  of  it,  my  boy,”  said  the  General;  “and, 
after  all,  it  was  an  excellent  joke,  carried  a little  too  far,  it  is 
true;  eh,  Lucy?” 

I But  Lucy  either  heard  not,  or  affected  not  to  hear;  and,  after 
some  little  further  assurance  that  he  felt  not  the  least  annoyed, 
the  General  turned  to  converse  with  some  other  friends;  while 
I,  burning  with  indignation  against  Webber,  took  a cold  fare- 
well of  Miss  Dash  wood,  and  retired. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

• THE  LAST  NIGHT  IN  TRINITY. 

How  I might  have  met  Master  Webber  after  his  impersonation 
of  Miss  Macan,  I cannot  possibly  figure  to  myself.  Fortunately, 
indeed,  for  all  parties,  he  left  town  early  the  next  morning;-  and 
it  was  some  weeks  ere  he  returned.  In  the  meanwhile,  I be- 
came a daily  visitor  at  the  General’s,  dined  there  usually  three 
or  four  times  aT  week,  rode  out  with  Lucy  constantly,  and 
accompanied  her  every  evening  either  to  the  theater  or  into 
society.  Sir  George,  possibly  from  my  youth,  seemed  to  pay 
little  attention  to  an  intimacy  which  he  perceived  every  hour 
growing  closer,  and  frequently  gave  his  daughter  into  my  charge 
in  our  morning  excursions  on  horseback.  As  for  me,  my  happi- 
ness was  all  but  perfect.  T loved,  and  already  began  to  hope 
that  1 was  not  regarded  with  indifference;  for,  although  Lucy’s 
manner  never  absolutely  evinced  any  decided  preference  toward 
me,  yet  many  slight  and  casual  circumstances  served  to 
show  me  that  my  attentions  to  her  were  neither  noticed  nor 
uncared  for.  Among  the  many  gay  and  dashing  companions 
of  our  rides,  I remarked  that,  however  anxious  for  such  a 
distinction,  none  ever  seemed  to  make  any  way  in  her  good 
graces;  and  I had  already  gone  far  in  my  self-deception  that  I 
was  destined  for  good  fortune,  when  a circumstance  which 
occurred  one  morning  at  length  served  to  open  my  eyes  to  the 
truth,  and  blast,  by  one  fatal  breath,  the  whole  harvest  of  my 
hopes. 

We  were  about  to  set  out  one  morning  on  a long  ride,  when 
Sir  George’s  presence  was  required  by  the  arrival  of  an  officer 
who  had  been  sent  from  the  Horse  Guards  on  official  business. 
After  half  an  hour’s  delay.  Colonel  Cameron,  the  officer  in 
question,  was  introduced,  and  entered  into  conversation  with 
our  party.  He  had  only  landed  in  England  from  the  Peninsula 
a few  days  before,  and  he  had  abundant  information  of  the 
stirring  events  enacting  there.  At  the  conclusion  of  an  anecdote 
— I forgot  what — he  turned  suddenly  round  to  Miss  Dash  wood, 
who  was  standing  beside  me,  and  said,  in  a low  voice: 

“ aoWp  I nm  of  h J 


108 


CHARLES  O’MALLEY. 


promised  a very  old  brother  officer  to  perform.  Can  I have  one 
moment’s  conversation  with  you  in  the  window  ?” 

As  he  spoke,  I perceived  that  he  crumpled  beneath  his  glove 
something  like  a letter. 

“To  me!”  said  Lucy,  with  a look  of  surprise  that  sadly  puz- 
zled me  whether  to  ascribe  it  to  coquetry  or  innocence — “to 
me  ?” 

“ To  you,”  said  the  Colonel,  bowing;  “ and  I am  sadly  deceived 
by  my  friend  Hammersly ” 

“Captain  Hammersly,”  said  she,  blushing  deeply,  as  she 
spoke. 

I heard  no  more.  She  turned  toward  the  window  with  the 
Colonel,  and  all  I saw  was,  that  he  handed  her  a letter,  'vvhich, 
having  hastily  broken  open,  and  thrown  her  eyes  over,  she  grew 
first  deadly  pale — then  red,  and,  while  her  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
I heard  her  say:  “How  like  him!  how  truly  generous  this  is!” 
I listened  for  no  more — my  brain  was  whirling  round,  and  n^ 
senses  reeling — turned  and  left  tlie  room — in  another  moment 
I was  on  my  horse,  galloping  from  the  spot,  despair  in  all  its 
blackness,  in  my  heart — and,  in  my  broken-hearted  misery, 
wishing  for  death. 

I was  miles  away  from  Dublin  ere  I remembered  well  what 
liad  occurred,  and  even  then  not  over  clearly;  the  fact  that  Lucy 
Dashwood,  whom  I imagined  to  be  my  own  in  heart,  loved  an- 
other, was  all  that  I really  knew.  That  one  thought  was  all  my 
mind  was  capable  of,  and  in  it  my  misery,  my  wretchedness 
were  centered. 

Of  all  the  grief  my  life  has  known,  I have  had  no  moments 
like  the  long  hours  of  that  dreary  night.  My  sorrow,  in  turn, 
took  every  shape  and  assumed  every  guise;  now  I remember  how 
the  Dashwoods  had  courted  my  intimacy  and  encouraged  my 
visits;  how  Lucy  herself  had  evinced,  in  a thousand  ways,  that 
she  felt  a preference  for  me.  I called  to  mind  the  many  equi- 
vocal proofs  I had  given  her  that  my  feeling,  at  least,  was  no 
common  one;  and  yet,  how  had  they  sported  with  my  affections 
and  jested  with  my  happiness!  That  she  loved  Hammersly  I had 
now  a palpable  proof ; that  this  affection  must  have  been  mutual 
and  prosecuted  at  the  very  moment  I was  not  only  professing 
my  own  love  for  her,  but  actually  receiving — all  but  an  avowal 
of  its  return — oh!  it  was  too,  too  base;  and,  in  my  deepest  heart, 
I cursed  my  folly,  and  vowed  never  to  see  her  more. 

It  was  late  on  the  next  day  ere  I retraced  my  steps  toward 
town,  my  heart  sad  and  heavy,  careless  as  to  what  became  of 
me  for  the  future,  and  pondering  whether  I should  not  at  once 
give  up  my  College  career,  and  return  to  my  uncle.  When  I 
reached  my  chamber,  all  was  silent  and  comfortless;  Webber  had 
not  returned;  my  servant  was  from  home;  and  I felt  myself 
more  than  even,  wretched  in  the  solitude  of  what  had  been  so 
oft  the  scene  of  noisy  and  festive  gayety.  I sat  some  hours 
in  a half-musing  state,  every  sad  depressing  thought  that 
blighted  hopes  can  conjure  up  rising  in  turn  before  me.  A 
loud  knocking  at  the  door  at  length  aroused  me.  I got  up  and 
No  one  was  there;  I looked  around,  as  well 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


109 


eoming  gloom  of  evening  would  permit,  but  saw  nothing.  I 
listened,  and  heard,  at  some  distance  off,  my  friend  Power’s 
manly  voice,  as  he  sang: 

“ Oh,  love  is  the  soul  of  an  Irish  Dragoon.” 

I hallooed  out:  “Power.” 

“Eh,  O’Malley,  is  that  you?”  inquired  he.  “Why  then,  it 
•eems  it  required  some  deliberation  whether  you  opened  your 
ioor  or  not.  Why,  man,  you  can  have  no  great  gift  of  prophecy, 
jr  you  wouldn’t  have  kept  me  so  long  there.” 

“ And  have  you  been  so?” 

“ Only  twenty  minutes;  for,  as  I saw  the  key  in  the  lock,  I 
had  determined  to  succeed,  if  noise  would  do  it.” 

“ How  strange.  I never  heard  it.” 

“Glorious  sleeper  you  must  be;  but  come,  my  dear  fellow, 
you  don’t  appear  altogether  awake  yet.” 

“ I have  not  been  quite  well  these  few  days.” 

“Oh!  indeed.  The  Dash  woods  thought  there  must  have  been 
something  of  tliat  Icind  the  matter,  by  your  brisk  retreat.  They 
sent  me  after  you  yesterday;  but,  wherever  you  went.  Heaven 
knows;  I never  could  come  up  with  you;  so  that  your  great 
news  has  been  keeping  these  twenty-four  hours  longer  than 
need  be.” 

“ I am  not  aware  what  you  allude  to.” 

“Well,  you  are  not  over  likely  to  be  the  wiser  when  you  hear 
it,  if  you  can  assume  no  more  intelligent  look  than  that.  Why, 
man, "there’s  great  luck  in  store  for  you.” 

“As  how,  pray?  Come,  Power  out  with  it,  though  I can’t 
pledge  myself  to  feel  half  as  grateful  for  my  good  fortune  as  I 
should  do.  What  is  it  ?” 

“You  know  Cameron?” 

“I  have  seen  him,”  said  I,  reddening, 

“ Well,  old  Camy,  as  we  used  to  call  him,  has  brought  over, 
among  his  other  news,  your  gazette.” 

“ My  gazette!  what  do  you  mean?” 

“ Confound  your  uncommon  stupidity  this  evening;  I mean, 
man,  that  you  are  one  of  us — gazetted  to  the  14th  light—the  best 
fellows  for  love,  war,  and  whisky  that  ever  sported  a sabertash. 

‘ Oh,  love  is  the  soul  of  an  Irish  dragoon.’  By  Jove,  I am  as 
delighted  to  have  rescued  you  from  the  black  harness  of  the 
King’s  Bench,  as  though  you  had  been  a prisoner  there.  Know, 
then,  friend  Charley,  that  on  Wednesday  we  proceed  to  Fermoy, 
join  some  score  of  gallant  fellows — all  food  for  powder — and,  with 
the  aid  of  a rotten  transport,  and  the  stormy  winds  that  blow, 
will  be  bronzing  our  beautiful  faces  in  Portugal  before  the 
month’s  out.  But  come,  now,  let's  see  about  supper;  some  of 
ours  are  coming  over  here  at  eleven,  and  I promised  them  a 
deviled  bone;  and,  as  it’s  your  last  night  among  these  classic 
precincts,  let  us  have  a shindy  of  it.” 

While  I dispatched  Mike  to  Morrison’s  to  provide  supper,  I 
heard  from  Power  that  Sir  George  Dash  wood  had  interested 
himself  so  strongly  for  me,  that  I had  obtained  my  cornetcy  in 
the  14th;  that,  fearful  lest  any  disappointment  might  arise,  he 


110 


CfUARLES  aMALLEY. 


had  never  mentioned  the  matter  to  me,  but  that  he liad  previous- 
ly obtained  my  uncle’s  promise  to  concur  in  the  arrangement,  if 
his  negotiations  succeeded.  It  had  so  done;  and  now  the  long- 
sought-for  object  of  many  days  was  within  my  grasp;  but,  alas! 
the  circumstance  which  lent  to  all  its  fascinations  was  a van- 
ished dream;  and  what,  but  two  days  before,  had  rendered  my 
happiness  perfect,  I listened  to  listlessly  and  almost  without 
interest.  Indeed,  my  first  impulse  at  finding  that  I owed  my 
promotion  to  Sir  George,  was  to  return  a positive  refusal  of  the 
cornetcy;  but  then  I remembered  how  deeply  such  conduct 
would  hurt  my  poor  uncle,  to  whom  I never  could  give  an  ade- 
quate explanation.  So  I heard  Power  in  silence  to  the  end, 
thanked  him  sincerely  for  his  own  good-natured  kindness  in  the 
matter,  which  already  by  the  interest  he  had  taken  in  me,  went 
far  to  hea]  the  wounds  that  my  solitary  musings  were  deepen- 
ing in  my  heart.  At  eighteen,  fortunately,  consolations  are 
attainable  that  become  more  difficult  at  eight-and-twenty,  and 
impossible  at  eight-and-thirty. 

While  Power  continued  to  dilate  upon  the  delights  of  a soldier’s 
life — a theme  which  many  a boyish  dream  had  long  since  made 
hallowed  to  my  thoughts — I gradually  felt  my  enthusiasm  ris- 
ing, and  a certain  throbbing  at  my  heart  betrayed  to  me  that, 
sad  and  dispirited  as  I felt,  there  was  still  within  that  buoyant 
spirit  which  youth  possesses  as  its  privilege,  and  which  answers 
to  the  call  of  enterprise  as  the  war-horse  to  the  trumpet.  That 
a career  worthy  of  manhood,  great,  glorious,  and  inspiriting, 
opened  before  me,  coming  so  soon  after  the  late  downfall  of  my 
hopes,  was,  in  itself,  a source  of  such  true  pleasure,  that  ere  long 
I listened  to  my  friend,  and  heard  his  narrative  with  breathless 
interest.  A lingering  sense  of  pique,  too,  had  its  share  in  all 
this.  I longed  to  come  forward  in  some  manly  and  dashing  part, 
where  my  youth  might  not  be  ever  remembered  against  me,  and 
when,  having  brought  myself  to  the  test,  I might  no  longer  be 
looked  upon  and  treated  as  a boy. 

We  were  joined  at  length  by  the  other  officers  of  the  14th,  and, 
to  the  number  of  twelve,  sat  down  to  supper. 

It  was  to  be  my  last  night  in  old  Trinity,  and  we  resolved  that 
the  farewell  should  be  a solemn  one.  Mansfield,  one  of  the 
wildest  young  fellowsjin  the  regiment,  had  vowed  that  the  leave- 
taking  should  be  commemorated  by  some  very  decisive  and  open 
expression  [of  f'our  feelings,  and  had  already  made  some  progress 
in  arrangements  for  blowing  up  the  great  iDell,  which  had  more 
than  once  obtruded  upon  our  morning  convivialities,  but  he  was 
overruled  by  his  more*  discreet  associates,  and  we  at  length 
assumed  our  places  at  table,  in  the  midst  of  which  stood  a 
hecatomb  of  all  my  college  equipments,  cap,  gown,  bands,  &c. 
A funeral  pile  of  classics  was  arrayed  upon  the  hearth,  sur- 
mounted by  my  “ Book  on  the  Cellar,”  and  a punishment  roll 
waved  its  length,  like  a banner,  over  the  doomed  heroes  of 
Greece  and  Rome. 

It  is  seldom  that  any  very  determined  attempt  to  be  gay  par 
excellence  has  a perfect  success;  but  certainly  upon  this  evening 
ours  had.  Songs,  good  stories,  speeches,  toasts,  bright  visions 


CHARLES  O^MALLET. 


Ill 


of  the  campaign  before  us,  the  wild  excitement  which  such  a 
meeting  cannot  be  free  from,  gradually,  as  the  wine  passed 
from  hand  to  hand,  seized  upon  all;  and  about  four  in  the  morn- 
ing, such  was  the  uproar  we  caused  and  so  terrific  the  noise  of 
our  proceedings,  that  the  accumulated  force  of  porters,  sent  one 
by  one,  to  demand  admission,  was  now  a formidable  body  at  the 
door;  and  Mike,  at  last,  came  so  as  to  assure  us  that  the  Bursar, 
the  most  dread  official  of  all  collegians,  v/as  without,  and  in- 
sisted, with  a threat  of  his  heaviest  displeasure  in  case  of  refusal, 
that  the  door  should  be  opened. 

A committee  of  the  whole  house  immediately  sat  upon  the 
question,  and  it  was  at  length  resolved  nemine  contradicente^ 
that  the  request  should  be  complied  with.  ^ A fresh  bowl  of 
punch,  in  honor  of  our  expected  guest,  was  immediately  con- 
cocted, a new  broil  put  on  the  gridiron,  and,  having  seated  our- 
selves with  as  great  a semblance  of  decorum  as  four  bottles  a 
man  admits  of,  Curtis,  the  junior  Captain,  being  most  drunk, 
was  deputed  to  receive  the  Bursar  at  the  door,  and  introduce 
him  to  our  august  presence. 

Mike’s  instructions  were,  that  immediately  on  Dr.  Stone,  the 
Bursar’s  entering,  the  door  was  to  be  slammed  to,  and  none  of 
his  followers  admitted.  This  done,  the  Doctor  was  to  be  ushered 
in,  and  left  to  our  own  polite  attentions. 

A fresh  thundering  from  without  scarcely  left  time  for  fur- 
ther deliberation;  and  at  last  Curtis  moved  toward  the  door,  in 
execution  of  his  mission. 

“ Is  there  any  one  there?”  said  Mike,  in  a tone  of  most  unso- 
phisticated innocence,  to  a rapping  that,  having  lasted  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,  threatened  now  to  break  in  the  panel.  “Is 
there  any  one  there  ?” 

“ Open  the  door,  this  instant — the  senior  Bursar  desires  you — 
this  instant.” 

“ Sure  it’s  night,  and  we’re  all  in  bed,”  said  Mike. 

“Mr.  Webber — Mr.  O’Malley,”  said  the  Bursar,  now  boiling 
with  indignation,  “ I summon  you,  in  the  name  of  the  Board, 
to  admit  me.” 

“Let  the  gemmen  in,”  hiccoughed  Curtis;  and,  at  the  same 
instant  the  heavy  bars  were  withdrawn,  and  the  door  opened,  but 
so  sparingly  as  with  difficulty  to  admit  the  passage  of  the  burly 
figure  of  the  Bursar. 

Forcing  his  way  through,  and,  regardless  of  what  became  of 
the  rest,  he  pushed  on  vigorously  through  the  ante-chamber,  and 
before  Curtis  could  perform  his  functions  of  usher,  stood  in  the 
midst  of  us.  What  were  his  feelings  at  the  scene  before  him. 
Heaven  knows.  The  number  of  figures  in  uniform  at  once  be- 
trayed how  little  his  jurisdiction  extended  to  the  great  mass  of 
the  company,  and  he  immediately  turned  toward  me. 

“ Mr.  Webber ” 

“O’Malley,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Bursar,”  said  I,  bowing  with 
most  ceremonious  politeness. 

“ No  matter,  sir;  arcades  ambo,  I believe.” 

“ Both  archdeacons,”  said  Melville,  translating,  with  a look 
of  withering  contempt  upon  the  speaker. 


112 


CHARLES  aMALLET. 


The  Doctor  continued,  addressing  me: 

“ May  I ask,  sir,  if  you  believe  yourself  possessed  of  any  privi- 
lege for  converting  this  university  into  a common  tavern 

“I  wished  to  Heaven  he  did,”  said  Curtis;  ‘‘capital  tap  your 
old  commons  would  make.” 

“Really,  Mr.  Bursar,”  replied  I,  modestly,  “I  had  begun  to 
flatter  myself  that  our  little  innocent  gayety  had  inspired  you 
with  the  idea  of  joining  our  party.” 

“ I humbly  move  that  the  old  cove  in  the  gown  do  take  the 
chair,”  sang  out  one.  “ All  who  are  of  this  opinion  say,  ‘ Ay  ’ ” 
— a perfect  yell  of  ayes  followed  this,  All  who  are  of  the  con- 
trary say,  ‘ No.’  The  ayes  have  it.” 

Before  the  luckless  Doctor  had  a moment  for  thought,  his  legs 
were  lifted  from  under  him,  and  he  was  jerked  rather  than 
placed  upon  a chair,  and  put  sitting  upon  the  table. 

“Mr.  O’Malley,  your  expulsion  within  twenty  four  hours ” 

“Hip,  hip,  hurra,  hurra,  hurra!”  drowned  the  rest,  while 
Power,  taking  off  the  Doctor’s  cap,  replaced  it  by  a foraging  cap, 
very  much  to  the  amusement  of  the  party. 

“ There  is  no  penalty  the  law  permits  of  that  I shall  not ” 

“ Help  the  Doctor,”  said  Melville,  placing  a glass  of  punch  in 
his  unconscious  hand. 

“ Now  for  a ‘ Viva  la  Compagnie,’  ” said  Telford,  seating  him- 
self at  the  piano,  and  playing  the  first  bars  of  that  well-known 
air,  to  which,  in  our  meetings,  we  were  accustomed  to  improvise 
a doggerel  in  turn: 

“ I drink  to  the  graces,  Law,  Physic,  Divinity, 

Viva  la  Campagnie; 

And  here’s  to  the  worthy  old  Bursar  of  Trinity, 

Viva  la  Compagnie.” 

“ Viva,  viva  la  va,”  &c.,  were  chorused  with  a shout  that  shook 
the  old  walls,  while  Power  took  up  the  strain: 

“ Though  with  lace  caps  and  gowns  they  look  so  like  asses, 

Viva  la  Compagnie.” 

They’d  rather  have  punch  than  the  springs  of  Parnassus, 

Viva  la  Compagnie. 

What  a nose  the  old  gentleman  has  by  the  way. 

Viva  la  Compagnie, 

Since  he  smelt  out  the  devil  from  Botany  Bay,* 

Botany  Bay  is  the  slang  name  given  by  College  men  to  a new  square 
rather  remotely  situated  from  the  remainder  of  the  College. 

Viva  la  Compagnie.” 

Words  cannot  give  even  the  faintest  idea  of  the  poor  Bursar’s 
feelings  while  these  demoniacal  orgies  were  enacting  around 
him.  Held  fast  in  his  chair  by  Lechmere  and  another,  he  glow- 
ered on  the  riotous  mob  around  like  a maniac,  and  astonished 
that  such  liberties  could  be  taken  with  one  in  his  situation, 
seemed  to  have  surpassed  even  his  rage  and  resentment;  and 
every  now  and  then  a stray  thought  would  flash  across  his  mind 
that  we  were  mad,  a sentiment  which,  unfortunately,  our  con- 
duct was  but  too  well  calculated  to  inspire. 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


113 


‘‘  So  you’re  the  morning  lecturer,  old  gentleman,  and  have 
just  dropped  in  here  in  the  way  of  business;  pleasant  life  you 
must  have  of  it,”  said  Casey,  now  by  far  the  most  tipsy  man 
present. 

‘‘If  you  think,  Mr.  O’Malley,  that  the  events  of  this  evening 
are  to  end  here ” 

“Very  far  from  it.  Doctor,”  said  Power;  “ I’ll  draw  up  a lit- 
tle account  of  the  affair  for  ‘ Saunders.’  They  shall  hear  of  it  in 
every  corner  and  nook  of  the  kingdom.” 

“ The  Bursar  of  Trinity  shall  be  a proverb  for  a good  fellow 
that  loveth  his  lush,”  hiccoughed  out  Fagan. 

“And  if  you  believe  such  conduct  is  academical,”  said  the 
Doctor,  with  a withering  sneer. 

“ Perhaps  not,”  lisped  Melville,  tightening  his  belt;  “ but  it’s 
devilish  convivial — eh.  Doctor  ?” 

“Is  that  like  him?”  asked  Moreton,  producing  a caricature 
which  he  had  just  sketched. 

“ Capital— very  good— perfect.  M’Cleary  shall  have  it  in  his 
window  by  noon  to-day,”  said  Power. 

At  this  instant  some  of  the  combustibles  disposed  among  the 
rejected  habiliments  of  my  late  vocation  caught  fij-e,  and  squibs, 
crackers,  and  detonating  shots  went  off  on  all  sides.  The  Bur- 
sar, who  had  not  been  deaf  to  several  hints  and  friendly  sugges- 
tions, about  setting  fire  to  him,  blowing  him  up,  &c.,  with  one 
vigorous  spring  burst  from  his  antgonists,  and,  clearing  the  table 
at  a bound,  reached  the  fioor.  Before  he  could  be  seized  he  had 
gained  the  door — opened  it,  and  was  away.  We  gave  chase, 
yelling  like  so  many  devils;  but  wine  and  punch,  songs  and 
speeches,  had  done  their  work,  and  more  than  one  among  the 
pursuers  measured  his  length  upon  the  pavement;  while  the  terri- 
fied Bursar,  with  the  speed  of  terror,  held  on  his  way,  and  gained 
his  chambers,  by  about  twenty  yards  in  advance  of  Power  and 
Melville,  whose  pursuit  only  ended  when  the  oaken  panel  of  the 
door  shut  them  out  from  their  victim.  One  loud  cheer  beneath 
his  window  served  for  our  farewell  to  our  friend,  and  we  re- 
turned to  my  rooms.  By  this  time  a regiment  of  those  classic 
functionaries,  yclepted  porters,  had  assembled  around  the  door, 
and  seemed  bent  on  giving  battle  in  honor  of  their  maltreated 
ruler;  but  Power  explained  to  them  in  a neat  speech,  replete 
with  Latin  quotations,  that  their  cause  was  a weak  one,  that  we 
were  more  than  their  match,  and,  finally,  proposed  to  them  to 
finish  the  punch- bowl,  to  which  we  were  really  incompetent,  a 
motion  that  met  immediateiacceptance;  and  old  Duncan,  with 
his  helmet  in  one  hand,  and  a goblet  in  the  other,  wished  me 
many  happy  days,  and  every  luck  in  this  life,  as  I stepped  from 
the  massive  archway,  and  took  my  last  farewell  of  old  Trinity. 

Should  any  kind  reader  feel  interested  as  to  the  ulterior  course 
assumed  by  the  Bursar,  I have  only  to  say  that  the  terrors  of  the 
“Board”  were  never  fulminated  against  me,  harmless  and  in- 
nocent as  I should  have  esteemed  them.  The  threat  of  giving 
publicity  to  the  entire  proceedings  by  the  papers,  and  the  dread 
of  figuring  in  a sixpenny  caricature  in  M’Cleary’s  window,  were 
tQQ  much  for  the  worthy  Doctor*  and  he  took  the  wiser  course^ 


114 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


under  the  circumstances,  and  held  his  peace  about  the  matter- 
1,  too,  have  done  so  for  many  a year,  and  only  now  recall  the 
scene  among  the  wild  transactions  of  early  days  and  boyish  fol- 
lies. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  PHCENIX  PARK. 

What  a glorious  thing  it  is  when  our  first  waking  thoughts 
not  only  dispel  some  dark,  depressing  dream,  but  arc'use  us  to 
the  consciousness  of  a new  and  bright  career  suddenly  opening 
before  us,  buoyant  in  hope,  rich  in  promise  for  the  future. 
Life  has  nothing  better  than  this.  The  bold  spring  by  which 
the  mind  clears  the  depth  that  separates  misery  from  happiness 
is  ecstasy  itself;  and  then  what  a world  of  bright  visions  come 
teeming  before  us;  what  plans  we  form;  what  promises  we  make 
to  ourselves  in  our  own  hearts;  how  prolific  is  the  dullest  im- 
agination; how  excursive  the  tamest  fancy,  at  such  a moment  I 
In  a few  short  and  fleeting  seconds  the  events  of  a whole 
life  are  planned  and  pictured  before  us.  Dreams  of  happi- 
ness and  visions  of  bliss,  of  which  all  our  after-years  are  insuf- 
ficient to  eradicate  the  prestige,  come  in  myriads  about  us;  and 
from  that  narrow  aperture  through  which  this  new  hope 
pierces  into  our  hearts  a flood  of  light  is  poured  that  illumines 
our  path  to  the  very  verge  of  the  grave.  How  many  a success 
in  after-days  is  reckoned  as  but  one  step  in  that  ladder  of  am- 
bition some  boyish  review  has  framed,  perhaps  after  all,  des- 
tined to  be  the  first  and  only  one  ! With  what  triumph  we  hail 
some  goal  attained,  some  object  of  our  wishes  gained,  less  for 
its  present  benefit  than  as  the  accomplishment  of  some  youthful 
prophecy,  when,  picturing  to  our  hearts  all  that  we  would  have 
in  life,  we  whispered  within  us  the  flattery  of  success  I 

Who  is  there  who  has  not  had  some  such  moment,  and  who 
would  exchange  it  with  all  the  delusive  and  deceptive  influ- 
ences by  which  it  comes  surrounded,  for  the  greatest  actual  happi- 
ness he  has  partaken  of  ? Alas,  alas!  it  is  only  in  the  boundless 
expanse  of  such  imaginings,  unreal  and  fictitious  as  they  are,  that 
we  are  truly  blessed.  Our  choicest  blessings  in  life  come  ever  so 
associated  with  some  sources  of  care,  that  the  cup  of  enjoyment 
is  not  pure,  but  dregged  in  bitterness. 

To  such  a world  of  bright  anticipation  did  I awake  on  the 
morning  after  the  events  I have  detailed  in  my  last  chapter. 
The  first  thing  my  eyes  fell  upon  was  an  ofiicial  letter  from  the 
Horse  Guards: 

“ The  Commander  of  the  Forces  desires  that  Mr.  O’Malley  will 
repair,  immediately  on  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  to  the  headquar- 
ters of  the  regiment  to  which  he  is  gazetted.” 

Few  and  simple  as  the  lines  were,  how  brimful  of  pleasure 
they  sounded  to  my  ears.  The  regiment  to  which  I was  gazet- 
ted! and  so  I was  a soldier  at  last;  the  first  wish  of  my  boyhood 
was  then  really  accomplished;  and  my  uncle,  what  will  he  say? 
what  will  he  thfnk  ? 

“A  letter,  sir,  by  the  post,”  said  Mike,  at  that  momenXt 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


115 


I seized  it  eagerly;  it  came  from  home,  but  was  in  Considine’s 
handwriting;  how  my  heart  failed  me  as  I turned  to  look  at  the 
seal!  “Thank  God,”  said  I aloud,  on  perceiving  that  it  was  a 
red  one.  I now  tore  it  open  and  read: 

“ My  dear  Charley, — Godfrey  being  laid  up  with  the  gout 
has  desired  me  to  write  to  you  by  this  day’s  post.  Your  ap- 
pointment to  the  14th,  notwithstanding  all  his  prejudices  about 
the  army,  has  given  him  sincere  pleasure.  I believe,  between 
ourselves,  that  your  college  career,  of  which  he  has  heard  some- 
thing, convinced  him  that  your  forte  did  not  lie  in  classics;  you 
know  I said  so  always,  but  nobody  minded  me.  Your  new 
prospects  are  all  that  your  best  friends  could  wish  for  you;  you 
begin  early;  your  corps  is  a crack  one;  you  are  ordered  for  serv- 
ice. What  could  you  have  more  ? 

“ Your  uncle  hopes,  if  you  can  get  a few  days’  leave,  that  you 
will  come  down  here  before  you  join,  and  I hope  so  too;  for  he 
is  unusually  low-spirited,  and  talks  about  his  never  seeing  you 
again,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 

“ I have  written  to  Merivale,  your  colonel,  on  this  subject,  as 
well  as  generally  on  your  behalf,  we  were  cornets  together  forty 
years  ago;  a strict  fellow  you’ll  find  him,  but  a trump  on  service. 
If  you  can’t  manage  the  leave,  write  a long  letter  home,  at  all 
events;  and  so  God  bless  you,  and  all  success, 

“Yours  sincerely, 

“ W.  CONSmiNE. 

“I  had  thought  of  writing  you  a long  letter  of  advice  for  your 
new  career,  and,  indeed,  half  accomplished  one.  After  all, 
however,  I can  tell  you  little  that  your  own  good  sense  will  not 
teach  you  as  you  go  on,  and  experience  is  ever  better  than  pre- 
cept. I known  of  but  one  rule  in  life  which  admits  of  scarcely 
any  exception,  and  having  followed  it  upward  of  sixty  years, 
approve  of  it  only  the  more — Never  quarrel  when  you  can  help 
it;  but  meet  any  man — your  tailor,  your  hair-dresser — if  he 
wishes  to  have  you  out. 

“W.  C.” 

I ha<i  scarcely  come  to  the  end  of  this  very  characteristic 
epistle,  when  two  more  letters  were  placed  upon  my  table.  One 
was  from  Sir  George  Dashwood,  inviting  me  to  dinner,  to  meet 
some  of  my  “ brother  officers.”  How  my  heart  beat  at  the  ex- 
pression; the  other  was  a short  note,  marked  “ private,”  from 
my  late  tutor.  Dr.  Mooney,  saying,  that  “if  I made  a suitable 
apology  to  the  Bursar,  for  the  late  affair  at  my  room,  he  might 
probably  be  induced  to  abandon  any  further  step;”  otherwise — 
then  followed  innumerable  threats  about  fine,  penalties,  expul- 
sions, &c.,  that  fell  most  harmlessly  upon  my  ears.  I accepted 
the  invitation;  declined  the  apology;  and,  having  ordered  my 
horse,  cantered  off  to  the  barracks  to  consult  my  friend  Power 
as  to  all  the  minor  details  of  my  career. 

As  the  dinner  hour  drew  near,  my  thoughts  became  again  fixed 
upon  Miss  Dashwood,  and  a thousand  misgivings  crossed  my 
mind,  as  to  whether  I should  have  nerve  enough  to  meet  her, 
without  disciosle^g  lia  w mmmt  the  aJltered  state  of  my  feelings^ 


116 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


a possibility  which  I now  dreaded  fully  as  much  as  I had  longed 
some  days  before  to  avow  my  affection  for  her,  however  slight 
its  prospects  of  return.  All  my  valiant  resolves  and  well-con- 
trived plans  for  appearing  unmoved  and  indifferent  in  her  pres- 
ence, with  which  I stored  my  mind  while  dressing,  and  when  on 
my  way  to  dinner,  were,  however,  needless,  for  it  was  a party 
exclusively  of  men;  and,  as  the  coffee  was  served, in  the  dining- , 
room,  no  move  was  made  to  the  drawing-room  by  any  of  the 
company.  Quite  as  well  as  it  is,  was  my  muttered  opinion,  as  I 
got  into  my  cab  at  the  door.  All  is  at  an  end  as  regards  me  in 
her  esteem,  and  I must  not  spend  my  days  sighing  for  a young 
lady  that  cares  for  another.  Very  reasonable,  very  proper  reso- 
lutions these;  but,  alas!  I went  home  to  bed,  only  to  think  half 
the  night  long  of  the  fair  Lucy,  and  dream  of  her  the  remainder 
of  it. 

When  morning  dawned,  my  first  thought  was,  shall  I see  her 
once  more  ? shall  I leave  her  forever  thus  abruptly  ? or,  rather 
shall  I not  unburden  my  bosom  of  its  secret,  confess  my  love, 
and  say  farewell  ? I felt  such  a course  much  more  in  unison 
with  my  wishes,  than  the  day  before;  and,  as  Power  had  told 
me  that  before  a week  we  should  present  ourselves  at  Fermoy, 

I knew  that  no  time  was  to  be  lost. 

My  determination  was  taken.  I ordered  my  horse,  and,  early 
as  it  was,  rode  out  to  the  Koyal  Hospital.  My  heart  beat  so 
strongly  as  I rode  up  to  the  door,  that  I half  resolved  to  return. 

I rang  the  bell.  Sir  George  was  in  town.  Miss  Dashwood  had 
just  gone  five  minutes  before  to  spend  some  days  at  Carton.  It 
is  fate,  thought  I,  as  I turned  from  the  spot,  and  walked  slowly 
beside  my  horse  toward  Dublin. 

In  the  few  days  that  intervened  before  my  leaving  town,  my 
time  was  occupied  from  morning  to  night;  the  various  details  of 
my  uniform,  outfit,  &c.,  were  undertaken  for  me  by  Power. 
My  horses  were  sent  for  at  Galway,  and  I myself,  with  innumer- 
able persons  to  see,  and  a mass  of  business  to  transact,  contrived, 
at  least  three  times  a day,  to  ride  out  to  the  Eoyal  Hospital,  al- 
ways to  make  some  trifling  inquiry  for  Sir  George,  and  always 
to  hear  repeated  that  Miss  Dashwood  had  not  returned. 

Thus  passed  five  of  my  last  six  days  in  Dublin,  and,  as  the 
morning  of  the  last  opened,  it  was  with  a sorrowing  spirit  that  I 
felt  my  hour  of  departure  approach,  without  one  only  opportu- 
ninty  of  seeing  Lucy,  even  to  say  good-bye. 

While  Mike  was  packing  in  one  corner,  and  I in  another  was 
concluding  a long  letter  to  my  poor  uncle,  my  door  opened,  and 
Webber  entered. 

Eh,  O’Malley,  I’m  only  in  time  to  say  adieu,  it  seems.  To  my 
surprise  this  morning  I found  you  had  cut  the  ‘ Silent  Sister.’  I 
feared  I should  be  too  late  to  catch  one  glimpse  of  you  ere  you 
started  for  the  wars.” 

You  are  quite  right.  Master  Frank,  and  I scarcely  expected 
to  have  seen  you.  Your  last  brilliant  achievement  at  Sir  George’s 
very  nearly  involved  me  in  a serious  scrape.” 

“ A mere  trifle.  How  confoundedly  silly  Power  must  have 
looked,  eh?  Should  like  so  much  to  have  seen  his  face^  He 


CBARLES  O^MALLEY. 


117 


booked  up  next  day — very  proper  fellow.  By  the  bye,  O’Malley, 

I rather  like  the  little  girl;  she  is  decidedly  pretty;  and  her  foot! 
did  you  remark  her  foot  ? — capital!” 

“Yes,  she’s  very  good-looking,”  said  I,  carelessly. 

“ I’m  thinking  of  cultivating  her  a little,”  said  Webber,  pull- 
ing up  his  cravat  and  adjusting  his  hair  at  the  glass.  “ She’s 
spoiled  by  all  the  tinsel  vaporing  of  her  hussar  and  aid-de^camp 
acquaintances;  but  something  may  be  done  for  her,  eh?” 

“With  your  most  able  assistance  and  kind  intentions.” 

“ That’s  what  I mean  exactly.  Sorry  you’re  going — devilish 
sorry.  You  served  out  Stone  gloriously;  perhaps  it’s  as  well, 
though;  you  know  they’d  have  expelled  you;  but  still  something 
might  turn  up;  soldiering  is  a bad  style  of  thing,  eh  ? How  the 
old  General  did  take  his  sister-in-law’s  presence  to  heart!  But 
he  must  forgive  and  forget,  for  I’m  going  to  be  very  great  friends 
with  him  and  Lucy.  Where  are  you  going  now  ?” 

“ I’m  about  to  try  a new  horse  before  troops,”  said  I.  “ He’s 
stanch  enough  with  the  cry  of  the  fox- pack  in  his  ears,  but  I 
don’t  know  how  he’ll  stand  a peal  of  artillery.” 

“Well,  come  along,”  said  Webber,  “I’ll  ride  with  you.  So 
saying,  we  mounted  and  set  off  to  the  Park,  where  two  regi- 
ments of  cavalry  and  some  horse  artillery  were  ordered  for  in- 
spection. 

The  review  was  over  when  we  reached  the  exercising  ground, 
and  we  slowly  walked  our  horses  toward  the  end  of  the  Park, 
intending  to  return  to  Dublin  by  the  road.  We  had  not  pro- 
ceeded far,  when,  some  hundred  yards  in  advance,  we  perceived 
an  officer  riding  with  a lady,  followed  by  an  orderly  dragoon. 

“There  he  goes,”  said  Webber;  “I  wonder  if  he’d  ask  me  to 
dinner,  if  I were  to  throw  myself  in  his  way  ?” 

“ Who  do  you  mean  ?”  said  I. 

“ Sir  George  Dashwood,  to  be  sure,  and,  la  voila,  Miss  Lucy. 
The  little  darling  rides  well,  too;  how  squarely  she  sits  her 
horse!  O’Malley,  I have  a weakness  there;  upon  my  soul  I have.” 

“Very  possible,”  said  I;  “I  am  aware  of  another  friend  of 
mine  participating  in  the  sentiment.” 

“ One  Charles  O’Malley,  of  his  Majesty’s ” 

' “Nonsense,  man — no,  no.  I mean  a very  different  person, 
and,  for  all  I can  see,  with  some  reason  to  hope  for  success.” 

“ Oh,  as  to  that,  we  flatter  ourselves  the  thing  does  not  present 
any  very  considerable  difficulties.” 

“ As  how,  pray?” 

“ Why,  of  course,  like  all  such  matters,  a very  decisive  deter** 
mination.  To  be,  to  do,  and  to  suffer,  as  Lindley  Murray  says, 
carries  the  day.  Tell  her  she’s  an  angel  every  day  for  three 
weeks.  She  may  laugh  a little  at  first,  but  she’ll  believe  it  in  the 
end.  Tell  her  that  you  have  not  the  slightest  prospect  of  ob- 
taining her  affection,  but  still  persist  in  loving  her.  That,  Anally, 
you  must  die  from  the  effects  of  despair,  etc.,  but  rather  like  the 
notion  of  it  than  otherwise.  That  you  know  she  has  no  fortune; 
that  you  haven’t  a sixpence;  and  should  marry  if  people  whose 
position  in  the  world  was  similar  did  not  ?” 


118 


CHARLES  aUALLEY. 


‘‘  But  halt;  pray  how  are  you  to  get  time  and  place  for  all  such 
interesting  conversations  ?” 

“Time  and  place!  Good  heavens,  what  a question!  Is  not 
every  hour  of  the  twenty-four  the  fittest  ? Is  not  every  place  the 
most  suitable  ? A sudden  pause  in  the  organ  in  St.  Patrick’s  did, 
it  is  true,  catch  me  once  in  a declaration  of  love;  but  the  choir 
came  in  to  my  aid,  and  drowned  the  lady’s  answer.  My  dear 
O’Malley,  what  could  prevent  you  this  instant,  if  you  are  so  dis»  \ 
posed,  from  doing  the  amiable  to  the  darling  Lucy,  there  ?”  \ 

“ With  the  father  for  an  umpire,  in  case  we  disagreed,”  said  I.  ^ 

“ Not  at  all.  I should  soon  get  rid  of  him.” 

“Impossible,  my  dear  friend.” 

“ Come  now,  just  for  the  sake  of  convincing  your  obstinacy. 
If  you  like  to  say  good-bye  to  the  little  girl  without  a witness, 
I’ll  take  off  the  he- dragon.” 

“ You  don’t  mean ” 

“I  do,  man — I do  mean  it.”  So  saying,  he  drew  a crimson 
silk  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  and  fastened  it  round  his 
waist  like  an  officer’s  sash.  This  done,  and  telling  me  to  keep 
in  their  wake,  for  some  minutes,  he  turned  from  me,  and  was 
soon  concealed  by  a copse  of  whitethorn  near  us. 

I had  not  gone  above  a hundred  yards  further,  when  I heard 
Sir  George’s  voice  calling  for  the  orderly.  I looked,  and  saw 
Webber  at  a considerable  distance  in  front,  curveting  and  play- 
ing all  species  of  antics.  The  distance  between  the  General  and 
myself  was  now  so  short,  that  I overheard  the  following  dia- 
logue wdth  the  sentry: 

“ He’s  not  in  uniform,  then?” 

“No,  sir;  he  has  a round  hat,” 

“ A round  hat!” 

“His  sash ” 

“ A sword  and  sash.  This  is  too  bad.  I’m  determined  to  find 
him  out.  Follow,  then.” 

“How  d’ye  do.  General?”  said  Webber,  as  he  rode  toward 
the  trees. 

“Stop,  sir!”  shouted  Sir  George. 

“ Good-day,  Sir  George,”  replied  Webber,  retiring. 

“ Stay  where  you  are,  Lucy,”  said  the  General,  as  dashing 
spurs  into  his  horse,  he  sprang  forward  at  a gallop,  incensed  be- 
yond endurance  that  his  most  strict  orders  should  be  so  openly 
and  insultingly  transgressed. 

Webber  led  on  to  a deep  hollow,  where  the  road  passed  be- 
tween two  smooth  slopes,  covered  with  furze  trees,  and  from 
w’hich  it  emerged  afterward  in  the  thickest  and  most  intricate 
part  of  the  Park.  Sir  George  dashed  boldly  after,  and,  in  less 
than  half  a minute,  both  were  lost  to  my  view,  leaving  me  in 
breathless  amazement  at  Master  Frank’s  ingenuity,  and  some 
puzzle  as  to  my  own  future  movements. 

“ Now,  then,  or  never,”  said  I,  as  I pushed  boldly  forward, 
and  in  an  instant  was  alongside  of  Miss  Dash  wood. 

Her  astonishment  at  seeing  me  so  suddenly  increased  the  con- 
fusion from  which  I found  myself  suffering,  and  for  some  min- 
utes I could  scarcely  speak.  At  last  I plucked  up  courage  a little, 
and  said: 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


119 


Miss  Dash  wood,  I have  looked  most  anxiously  for  the  last 
four  days  for  the  moment  which  chance  has  now  given  me.  I 
wished,  before  I parted  forever  from  those  to  whom  I owe  al- 
ready so  much,  that  I should  at  least  speak  my  gratitude  ere 
I said  good-bye.” 

•‘But  when  do  you  think  of  going?” 

“To-morrow;  Captain  Power,  under  whose  command  lam, 
has  received  orders  to  embark  immediately  for  Portugal.” 

I thought — perhaps  it  was  but  a thought — that  her  cheek  grew 
somewhat  paler  as  I spoke,  but  she  remained  silent;  and  I, 
scarcely  knowing  what  I had  said,  or  whether  I had  finished, 
spoke  not  either. 

“Papa,  I’m  sure,  is  not  aware,”  said  she,  after  a long  pause, 
“of  your  intention  of  leaving  so  soon;  for  only  last  night  he 
spoke  of  some  letters  he  meant  to  give  you  to  some  friends  in  the 
Peninsula;  besides,  I know  ” — here  she  smiled  faintly — “ that  he 
destined  some  excellent  advice  for  your  ears,  as  to  your  new  path 
in  life,  for  he  has  an  immense  opinion  of  the  value  of  such  to  a 
young  ofl&cer.” 

I am,  indeed,  most  grateful  to  Sir  George,  and  truly  never 
did  any  one  stand  more  in  need  of  counsel  than  I do.”  This  was 
said  half  musingly,  and  not  intended  to  be  heard. 

“Then,  pray,  consult  papa,”  said  she,  eagerly,  “he  is  much 
attached  to  you,  and  will,  I’m  certain,  do  all  in  his  power ” 

“ Alas!  I fear  not.  Miss  Dash  wood.” 

“Why,  what  can  you  mean?  has  anything  so  serious  oc- 
curred ?” 

“ No,  no;  I’m  but  misleading  you  and  exciting  your  sympathy 
with  false  pretenses.  Should  I tell  you  all  the  truth,  you  would 
not  pardon — perhaps  not  hear  me.” 

“ You  have,  indeed,  puzzled  me;  but  if  there  is  anything  in 
which  my  father ” 

“ Less  him  than  his  daughter,”  said  I,  fixing  my  eyes  full  upon 
her  as  I spoke.  “Yes,  Lucy,  I feel  I must  confess  it,  cost  what 
it  may — I love  you;  stay,  hear  me  out;  I know  the  fruitlessness, 
the  utter  despair,  that  awaits  such  a sentiment.  My  own  heart 
tells  me  that  I am  not,  cannot  be,  loved  in  return;  yet  would  I 
rather  cherish  in  its  core  my  affection,  slighted  and  unblessed, 
such  as  it  is,  than  own  another  heart.  I ask  for  nothing;  I hope 
for  nothing;  I merely  entreat  that,  for  my  truth,  I may  meet 
belief,  and,  for  my  heart’s  worship  of  her  whom  alone  I can  love, 
compassion.  I see  that  you  at  least  pity  me.  Nay,  one  word 
more;  I have  one  favor  more  to  ask;  it  is  my  last,  my  only  one. 
Do  not,  when  time  and  distance  may  have  separated  us — perhaps 
forever— think  that  the  expressions  I now  use  are  prompted  by 
a mere  sudden  ebullition  of  boyish  feeling;  do  not  attribute  to 
the  circumstance  of  my  youth  alone  the  warmth  of  the  attach- 
ment I profess;  for  I swear  to  you,  by  every  hope  I have,  that, 
in  my  heart  of  hearts,  my  love  to  you  is  the  source  and  spring 
of  every  action  in  my  life,  of  every  aspiration  in  my  heart;  and, 
when  I cease  to  love  you,  I shall  cease  to  feel. 

“ And  now,  farewell;  farewell  forever.”  I pressed  her  hand 
to  my  lips,  gave  one  long,  last  look,  turned  my  horse  rapidly 


120  CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 

away,  and,  ere  a minute,  was  far  out  of  sight  of  where  I left 
her, 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  BOAD. 

Power  was  detained  in  town  by  some  orders  from  the  Adju- 
tant-General, so  that  I started  for  Cork,  the  next  morning,  with 
no  other  companion  than  my  servant  Mike.  For  the  first  few 
stages  upon  the  road,  my  own  thoughts  sufiiciently  occupied  me 
to  render  me  insensible  or  indifferent  to  all  else.  My  opening 
career — the  prospects  my  new  life  as  a soldier  held  out — my 
hopes  of  distinction— my  love  of  Lucy,  with  all  its  train  of 
doubts  and  fears — passed  in  review  before  me,  and  I took  no 
note  of  time  till  far  past  noon.  I now  looked  to  the  back  part 
of  the  coach,  where  Mike’s  voice  had  been,  as  usual,  in  the 
ascendant  for  some  time,  and  perceived  that  he  was  surrounded 
by  an  eager  auditory  of  four  raw  recruits,  who,  under  the  care  of 
a sergeant,  were  proceeding  to  Cork,  to  be  enrolled  in  their  regi- 
ment. The  sergeant,  whose  minutes  of  wakefulness  were  only 
these,  when  the  coach  stopped  to  change  horses,  and  when  he 
got  down  to  mix  a “ summat  hot,’’  paid  little  attention  to  his  fol- 
lowers, leaving  them  perfectly  free  in  all  their  movements,  to  lis- 
ten to  Mike’s  eloquence,  and  profit  by  his  suggestions,  should 
they  deem  fit.  Master  Michael’s  services  to  his  new  acquaint- 
ances, I began  to  perceive,  were  not  exactly  of  the  same  nature 
as  Dibdin  is  reported  to  have  rendered  to  our  navy  in  the  late 
war.  Far  from  it;  his  theme  was  no  contemptuous  disdain  for 
danger — no  patriotic  enthusiasm  to  fight  for  home  and  country 
— no  proud  consciousness  of  British  valor,  mingled  with  the 
appropriate  hatred  of  our  mutual  enemies;  on  the  contrary, 
Mike’s  eloquence  was  enlisted  for  the  defendant.  He  detailed, 
and  in  no  unimpressive  way  either,  the  hardships  of  a soldier’s 
life,  its  dangers,  its  vicissitudes,  its  chances,  its  possible  penalties, 
its  inevitably  small  rewards,  and,  in  fact,  so  completely  did  he 
work  on  the  feelings  of  his  hearers,  that  I perceived  more  than 
one  glance  exchanged  between  the  victims,  that  certainly  be- 
tokened anything  save  the  resolve  to  fight  for  King  George.  It 
was  at  the  close  of  a long  and  most  powerful  appeal  upon  the 
superiority  of  any  other  line  of  life,  petty  larceny  and  small 
felony  inclusive,  that  he  concluded  with  the  following  quotation: 

Thrue  for  ye,  boys! 

“With  your  red  scarlet  cloak, 

You’re  as  proud  as  a goat. 

And  your  long  cap  and  feather. 

“ But  by  the  piper  that  played  before  Moses,  it’s  more  whip- 
ping nor  gingerbread  is  going  on  amongst  them;  av  ye  knew 
but  all,  and  heerd  the  misfortune  that  happened  to  my  father.” 

“ And  was  he  a sodger  ?”  inquired  one. 

“Troth  was  he,  more  sorrow  to  him;  and  wasn’t  he  almost 
whipped  one  day,  for  doing  what  he  was  bid  ?” 

“ Musha,  but  that  was  hard.” 

“ To  be  sure  it  was  hard;  but  faix,  when  my  father  seen  that 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


121 


they  didn’t  know  their  own  minds,  he  thought,  anyhow,  he 
knew  his,  so  he  ran  away;  and  devil  a bit  of  him  they  ever 
cotch  afther.  Maybe  ye  might  like  to  hear  the  story,  and 
there’s  instruction  in  it  for  ye,  too.” 

A general  request  to  this  end  being  preferred  by  the  company, 
Mike  took  a shrewd  look  at  the  sergeant,  to  be  sure  that  he  was 
still  sleeping,  settled  his  coat  comfortably  across  his  knees, 
and  began: 

‘‘Well,  it’s  a good  many  years  ago  my  father  ’listed  in  the 
North  Cork,  just  to  oblige  Mr.  Barry,  the  landlord  there;  ‘for’ 
says  he,  ‘Phil,’  says  he,  ‘it’s  not  a soldier  ye’ll  be  at  all  but  my 
own  man,  to  brush  my  clothes  and  go  errands;  and  the  like  o’ 
that,  and  the  king,  long  life  to  him,  will  help  to  pay  ye  for  your 
trouble — ye  understand  me.’  Wei],  my  father  agreed,  and  Mr. 
Barry  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Never  a guard  did  my  father 
mount,  nor  as  much  as  a drill  had  he,  nor  a roll-call,  nor  any- 
thing at  all,  save  and  except  wait  on  the  Captain,  his  master, 
just  as  pleasant  as  need  be,  and  no  inconvenience  in  life. 

“Well,  for  three  years  this  went  on  as  I’m  telling,  and  the 
regiment  was  ordered  down  to  Bantery,  because  of  a report  that 
the  ‘ boys  ’ was  rising  down  there;  and  the  second  evening  there 
was  a night  party  patroling,  with  Captain  Barry,  for  six  hours 
in  the  rain,  and  the  Captain,  God  be  merciful  to  him,  took  cowld 
and  died;  more,  betoken,  they  said  it  was  drink,  but  my  father 
said  it  wasn’t;  ‘ for,’ says  he,  ‘after  he  tuk  eight  tumblers  com- 
fortable,’ my  father  mixed  the  ninth,  the  captain  waved  his 
hand  this  way,  as  much  as  to  say  he’d  have  no  more.  ‘ Is  it  that 
ye  mean  ? ’ says  my  father,  and  the  Captain  nodded.  ‘ Musha, 
but  it’s  sorry  I am,’  says  my  father,  ‘ to  see  you  this  way,  for  ye 
must  be  bad  entirely  to  leave  off  in  the  beginning  of  the  even- 
ing.’ And  thrue  for  him,  the  Captain  was  dead  in  the  morning. 

“A  sorrowful  day  it  was  for  my  father,  when  he  died;  it  was 
the  finest  place  in  the  world;  little  to  do;  plenty  of  divarson: 
and  a kind  man  he  was — when  he  was  drunk.  Well,  then,  when 
the  Captain  was  buried,  and  all  was  over,  my  father  hoped  they’d 
be  for  letting  him  away,  as  he  said,  ‘Sure,  I’m  of  no  use  in  life  to 
anybody,  save  the  man  that’s  gone,  for  his  ways  are  all  I know, 
and  I never  was  a sodger.’  But,  upon  my  conscience,  they  had 
other  thoughts  in  their  heads;  for  they  ordered  him  into  the 
ranks  to  be  drilled  just  like  the  recruits  they  took  the  day  be- 
fore. 

“ ‘ Musha,  isn’t  this  hard  ?’  said  my  father;  ‘ here  I am  an  ould 
vitrin  that  ought  to  be  discharged  on  a pension,  with  two-and- 
sixpence  a day,  obliged  to  go  capering  about  the  barrack-yard 
practicing  the  goose  step,  or  some  other  nonsense  not  becoming 
my  age  nor  my  habits;’  but  so  it  was.  Well,  this  went  on  for 
some  time;  and,  sure,  if  they  were  harden  my  father,  hadn’t  he 
his  revenge,  for  he  nigh  broke  their  hearts  with  his  stupidity; 
oh!  nothing  in  life  could  equal  him;  devil  a thing,  no  matter 
how  easy,  he  could  learn  at  all,  and  so  far  from  caring  for  being 
in  confinement,  it  was  that  he  liked  best.  Every  sergeant  in 
the  regiment  had  a trial  of  him,  but  all  to  no  good,  and  he  seeiv-' 


CHARLES  O^MALLET. 


ed  striving  so  hard  to  learn  all  the  while,  that  they  were  loath 
to  punish  him,  the  ould  rogue  I 

“ This  was  going  on  for  some  time,  when,  one  day,  news  came 
in  that  a body  of  rebels,  as  they  called  them,  was  coming  down 
from  the  Gap  of  Mulnavick,  to  storm  the  town  and  burn  all  be- 
fore them.  The  whole  regiment  was  of  coorse  under  arms, 
and  great  preparations  were  made  for  a battle;  meanwhile  pa 
trols  were  ordered  to  scour  the  roads,  and  sentries  posted  at 
every  turn  of  the  way  and  every  rising  ground,  to  give  warning 
when  the  boys  came  in  sight,  and  my  father  was  placed  at  the 
bridge  of  Drumsnag  in  the  wildest  and  bleakest  part  of  the 
whole  country,  with  nothing  but  furze  mountains  on  every  side, 
and  a straight  road  going  over  the  top  of  them. 

“ ‘ This  is  pleasant/  says  my  father,  as  soon  as  they  left  him 
there  alone  by  himself,  with  no  human  craytur  to  speak  to,  nor 
a whisky  shop  within  ten  miles  of  him;  ‘ cowld  comfort,’  says 
he,  ‘ on  a winter  day,  and  faix  but  I’ve  a mind  to  give  ye  the 
slip.' 

“ Well,  he  put  his  gun  down  on  the  bridge,  and  he  lit  his  pipe, 
and  he  sat  down  under  an  ould  tree,  and  began  to  ruminate  upon 
his  affairs. 

“ ‘ Oh,  then  it’s  wishing  it  well  I am,’  says  he,  ‘ for  sodgering; 
and  bad  luck  to  the  hammer  that  struck  the  shilling  that  listed 
me,  that’s  all,’  for  he  was  mighty  lo^v'  in  his  heart. 

“Just  then  a noise  came  rattling  down  near  him;  he  listened; 
and  before  he  could  get  on  his  legs,  down  comes  the  General, 
ould  Cohoon,  with  an  orderly  after  him, 

“ ‘ Who  goes  there  V says  my  father. 

“ ‘ The  round,’  says  the  General,  looking  about  all  the  time  to 
see  where  was  the  sentry,  for  my  father  was  snug  under  the 
tree, 

“ ‘ What  round  ?’  says  my  father. 

“ * The  grand  round,’  says  the  General,  more  puzzled  than 
afore. 

*'  ‘ Pass  on,  grand  round,  and  God  save  you  kindly,’  says  my 
father,  putting  bis  pipe  in  his  mouth  again,  for  he  thought  al? 
was  over. 

“ ‘ D — n your  soul,  where  are  you?  says  the  General;  for  soi 
row  bit  of  my  father  could  he  see  yet. 

“ ‘ It’s  here  I am,’  says  he,  ‘and  a cowld  place  I have  of  it; 
and  av  it  wasn’t  for  the  pipe  I’d  be  lost  entirely.’ 

“ The  words  wasn’t  well  out  of  his  mouth,  when  the  General 
began  laughing  till  ye’d  think  he’d  fall  off  his  horse;  and  the 
dragoon  behind  him — more  by  token,  they  say  it  wasn’t  right 
for  him— laughed  as  loud  as  himself. 

“ ‘ Yer  a droll  sentry,’  says  the  General,  as  soon  as  he  could 
speak. 

“ ‘Be  gorra,  it’s  little  fun  there’s  left  in  me,’  says  my  father, 
‘with  this  drilling  and  parading,  and  blaguarding  about  the 
roads  all  night.’ 

“‘And  is  this  the  way  you  salute  your  officer?’  says  the 
General. 


CHARLES  aKALLEYr  123 

“ * Just  so,’  says  my  father;  * devil  a more  politeness  ever  they 
taught  me.* 

“ ‘What  regiment  do  you  belong  to?  says  the  General. 

“ The  North  Cork,  bad  luck  to  them,”  says  my  father,  with  a 
sigh. 

“ ‘ They  ought  to  be  proud  of  ye,’  says  the  General. 

“ ‘ I’m  sorry  for  it,’  says  my  father,  sorrowfully,  ‘ for  maybe 
they’ll  keep  me  the  longer.* 

“ ‘ Well,  my  good  fellow,’  says  the  General,  ‘ I haven’t  more 
time  to  waste  here;  but  let  me  teach  you  something  before  I 
go.  Whenever  your  officer  passes,  it’s  your  duty  to  present 
arms  to  him.’ 

“ ‘ Arrah,  it’s  jokin’  ye  are,’  says  my  father. 

“ ‘ No,  I’m  in  earnest,  says  he,  ‘ as  ye  might  learn  to  your  cost, 
if  I had  brought  you  to  a court-martial.’ 

“ ‘ Well,  there’s  no  knowing,’  says  my  father,  ‘what  they’d  be 
up  to;  but  sure  if  that’s  all.  I’ll  do  it  with  all  “ the  veins,”  when- 
ever yer  coming  this  way  again.’ 

“ The  General  began  to  laugh  again  here,  but  said: 

“ ‘ I’m  coming  back  again  in  the  evening,*  says  he,  ‘ and  mind 
you  don’t  forget  your  respect  to  your  officer.’ 

“ ‘ Never  fear,  sir,’  says  my  father,  ‘ and  many  thanks  to  you 
for  your  kindness  for  telling  me.’ 

“ Away  went  the  General,  and  the  orderly  after  him,  and  in 
ten  minutes  they  were  out  of  sight. 

“ The  night  was  falling  fast,  and  one-half  of  the  mountain 
was  quite  dark  already,  when  my  father  began  to  think  they 
were  forgetting  him  entirely.  He  looked  one  way,  and  he 
looked  another,  but  sorra  bit  of  a sergeant’s  guard  was  coming 
to  relieve  him.  There  he  was,  fresh  and  fasting,  and  daren’t  go 
for  the  bare  life.  ‘ I’ll  give  you  a quarter  of  an  hour  more,’ 
says  my  father,  ‘till  the  light  leaves  that  rock  up  there;  after 
that,’  says  he,  ‘by  the  mass!  I’ll  be  off,  av  it  cost  me  what  it 
may!’ 

“ Well,  sure  enough,  his  courage  was  not  needed  this  time;  for 
what  did  he  see  at  the  same  moment  but  the  shadow  of  some- 
thing coming  down  the  road,  opposite  the  bridge;  he  looked 
again;  and  then  he  made  out  the  General  himself,  that  was 
walking  his  horse  down  the  steep  part  of  the  mountain,  followed 
by  the  orderly.  My  father  immediately  took  up  his  musket  off 
the  wall,  settled  his  belts,  shook  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and 
put  it  into  his  pocket,  making  himself  as  smart  and  neat-looking 
as  he  could  be,  determining,  when  ould  Cohoon  come  up,  to  ask 
him  for  leave  to  go  home,  at  least  for  the  night.  Well,  by  this 
time,  the  General  was  turning  a sharp  part  of  the  cliff  that  looks 
down  upon  the  bridge,  from  where  you  might  look  five  miles 
round  on  every  side.  ‘ He  sees  me,’  says  my  father;  ‘ but  I’ll  be 
Just  as  quick  as  himself.’  No  sooner  said  than  done;  for,  coming 
forward  to  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  he  up  with  his  musket  to 
liis  shoulder,  and  presented  it  straight  at  the  General.  It  wasn’t 
well  there,  when  the  officer  pulled  up  his  horse  quite  short,  and 
shouted  out,  ‘ Sentry — ^sentry!’ 

“ ‘ Anan!’  savs  my  father  still  '^overing  him. 


124 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


“ ‘ Down  with  your  musket,  you  rascal;  don’t  you  see  it’s  the 
grand  round  T 

“‘To  be  sure  I do,’ says  my  father,  never  changing  for  a 
minute. 

“ ‘ The  ruffian  will  shoot  me,’  says  the  General. 

“ ‘ Devil  a fear,’  says  my  father,  ‘ av  it  doesn't  go  off  of  itself.’ 

“ ‘ What  do  you  mean  by  that,  you  villain  ?’  says  the  General, 
scarcely  able  to  speak  with  fright,  for  every  turn  he  gave  on 
his  horse,  my  father  followed  with  the  gun — ‘ what  do  you 
mean  ?’ 

“ ‘ Sure,  ain’t  I presenting?’  says  my  father;  ‘blood  and  ages, 
do  you  want  me  to  fire  next  ?’ 

“With  that  the  General  drew  a pistol  from  his  holster,  and 
took  deliberate  aim  at  my  father;  and  there  they  both  stood  for 
five  minutes,  looking  at  each  other,  the  orderly,  all  the  while, 
breaking  his  heart  laughing  behind  a rock;  for,  ye  see,  the 
General  knew  av  he  retreated  that  my  father  might  fire  on  pur- 
pose, and  av  he  came  on  that  he  might  fire  by  chance;  and  sorra 
bit  he  knew  what  was  best  to  be  done. 

“ ‘ Are  ye  going  to  pass  the  evening  up  there.  Grand  Round?’ 
says  me  father,  ‘for  it’s  tired  I’m  getting  houldin’  this  so 
long!’ 

“ ‘ Port  arms,’  shouted  the  General,  as  if  on  parade. 

“ ‘ Sure  I can’t,  till  yer  passed,’  says  my  father,  angrily,  ‘and 
my  hand’s  trembling  ^ready.’ 

“ ‘ By  heavens!  I shall  be  shot,’  says  the  General. 

“ ‘Be  gorra,  it’s  what  I’m  afraid  of,’  says  my  father;  and  the 
words  wasn’t  out  of  his  mouth  before  off  went  the  musket,  bang, 
and  down  fell  the  General,  smack  on  the  ground  senseless. 
Well,  the  orderly  ran  out  at  this,  and  took  him  up  and  examined 
his  wound;  but  it  wasn’t  a wound  at  all,  only  the  wadding  of 
the  gun,  for  my  father — God  be  kind  to  him — ye  see,  could  do 
nothing  right,  and  so  he  bit  off  the  wrong  end  of  the  cartridge 
when  he  put  it  in  the  gun,  and  by  reason  there  was  no  bullet  in 
it.  Well,  from  that  day  after  they  never  got  sight  of  him,  for 
the  instant  the  General  dropped  he  sprung  over  the  bridge  wall, 
and  got  away;  and  what  between  living  in  a lime-kiln  for  two 
months,  eating  nothing  but  blackberries  and  sloes,  and  other  dis 
guises,  he  never  returned  to  the  army,  but  ever  after  took  a civil 
situation,  and  driv  a hearse  for  many  years.” 

How  far  Mike’s  narrative  might  have  contributed  to  the  sup 
port  of  his  theory,  I am  unable  to  pronounce;  for  his  auditory 
were,  at  some  distance  from  Cork,  made  to  descend  from  their 
lofty  position  and  join  a larger  body  of  recruits  all  proceeding  to 
the  same  destination  under  a strong  escort  of  infantry.  For  our- 
selves, we  reached  the  “beautitul  ” city  in  due  time,  and  took 
up  oui’  quarters  at  the  Old  George  hotel. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

CORK. 

The  undress  rehearsal  of  a new  piece,  with  its  dirty- booted  ac* 
tors,  its  cloak  and  hooded  actresses  en  papillote,  bears  about  the 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


125 


same  relation  to  the  gala,  waxlit  and  enspangled  ballet  as  the  raw 
young  gentleman  or  yesterday  to  the  epauletted,  belted,  and 
sabertasched  dragoon,  whose  transformation  is  due  to  a 
few  hours  of  headquarters  and  a few  interviews  with  the  ad- 
jutant. 

So,  at  least,  I felt  it;  and  it  was  with  a very  perfect  concur- 
rence in  his  Majesty’s  taste  in  a uniform,  and  a most  entire  ap- 
proval of  the  regimental  tailor,  that  I strutted  down  George’s 
street  a few  days  after  my  arrival  in  Cork.  The  transports  had  I 
not  as  yet  come  round;  there  was  a great  doubt  of  their  doing  so 
for  a week  or  so  longer;  and  I found  myself,  as  the  dashing  cor- 
net, the  center  of  a thousand  polite  attentions  and  most  kind 
civilities. 

The  officer  under  whose  orders  I was  placed  for  the  time,  was 
a great  friend  of  Sir  George  Dashwood’s,  and  paid  me,  in  conse- 
quence, much  attention.  Major  Dalrymple  had  been  on  the 
staff  from  the  commencement  of  his  military  career — had  served 
in  the  commissariat  for  some  time — was  much  in  foreign  sta- 
tions, but  never,  by  any  of  the  many  casualities  of  his  life,  had 
seen  what  could  be  called  service.  His  ideas  of  the  soldier’s 
profession  were,  therefore,  what  might  almost  be  as  readily 
picked  up  by  a commission  in  the  battle-ax  guards,  as  one  in 
nis  Majesty’s  fiftieth.  He  was  now  a species  of  district  pay- 
master, employed  in  a thousand  ways,  either  inspecting  recruits, 
examining  accounts,  revising  sick  certificates,  or  receiving  con- 
tracts for  mess  beef.  Whether  the  nature  of  his  manifold  occu- 
pations had  enlarged  the  sphere  of  his  talents  and  ambition,  or 
whether  the  abilities  had  suggested  the  variety  of  his  duties,  I 
know  not;  but  truly,  the  Major  was  a man  of  all  work.  No 
sooner  did  a young  ensign  join  his  regiment  at  Cork,  than  Ma- 
jor Dalrymple’s  card  was  left  at  his  quarters;  the  next  day  came 
the  Major  himself;  the  third  brought  an  invitation  to  dinner; 
on  the  fourth  he  was  told  to  drop  in,  in  the  evening;  and  from 
thenceforward  he  was  the  ami  de  la  maison^  in  company  with 
numerous  others  as  newly-fledged  and  inexperienced  as  him- 
self. 

One  singular  feature  of  the  society  at  the  house  was  that,  al- 
though the  Major  was  as  well-known  as  the  flag  on  Spike  Is- 
land, yet,  somehow,  no  officer  above  the  rank  of  an  ensign  was 
ever  to  be  met  with  there.  It  was  not  that  he  had  not  a large 
acquaintance;  in  fact,  the  “ how  are  you.  Major — how  goes  it, 
Dalrymple  ?”  that  kept  everlastingly  going  on  as  he  walked  the 
streets,  proved  the  reverse;  but,  strange  enough,  his  predilec- 
tions leaned  toward  the  newly-gazetted,  far  before  the  bronzed 
and  seared  campaigners  who  had  seen  the  world,  and  knew 
more  about  it.  The  reasons  for  this  line  of  conduct  were  two- 
fold; in  the  first  place,  there  was  not  an  article  of  outfit,  from  a 
stock  to  a sword-belt,  that  he  could  not  and  did  not  supply  to 
the  young  officer;  from  the  gorget  of  the  infantry  to  the  shako 
of  the  grenadier,  all  came  within  his  province;  not  that  he  actu- 
ally kept  a magasin  of  these  articles,  but  he  had  so  completely 
interwoven  his  interests  with  those  of  numerous  shop-keepers  in 
Cork,  that  he  rarely  entered  a shop  over  whose  door  Dalrymple 


126 


CHAULES  am  ALLEY. 


& Co.  might  not  have  figured  on  the  signboard. , His  stables 
were  filled  with  a perfect  infirmary  of  superannuated  chargers, 
fattened  and  conditioned  up  to  a miracle,  and  groomed  to  per- 
fection; he  could  get  you — only  you — about  three  dozen  of  sher- 
ry to  take  out  with  you  as  sea-store;  he  knew  of  such  a serv- 
ant; he  chanced  upon  such  a camp-furniture  yesterday  in  his 
walks;  in  fact,  why  want  for  anything?  his  resources  were  in- 
exhaustible— his  kindness  unbounded. 

Then,  money  was  no  object — hang  it,  you  could  pay  when  you 
liked — what  signified  it  ? In  other  words,  a bill  at  thirty-one 
days,  cashed  and  discounted  by  a friend  of  the  Major’s  would 
always  do.  While  such  was  the  unlimited  advantage  his  ac- 
quaintance conferred,  the  sphere  of  his  benefits  took  another 
range.  The  Major  had  two  daughters;  Matilda  and  Fanny  were 
as  well  known  in  the  army  as  Lord  Fitzroy  Somerset  or  Picton, 
from  the  Isle  of  Wight  to  Halifax,  from  Cape  Coast  to  Chatham, 
from  Belfast  to  the  Bermudas.  Where  was  the  subaltern  who 
had  not  knelt  at  the  shrine  of  one  or  the  other,  if  not  of  both,  and 
avowed  eternal  love  until  a change  of  quarters!  In  plain  words, 
the  Major’s  solicitude  for  the  service  was  such,  that  not  content 
with  providing  the  young  officer,  with  all  the  necessary  outfit  of 
his  profession,  he  longed  also  to  supply  him  with  a comforter 
for  his  woes,  a charmer  for  his  solitary  hours,  in  the  person  of 
one  of  his  amiable  daughters.  Unluckily,  however,  the  neces- 
sity for  a wife  is  not  enforced  by  “ general  orders,”  as  is  the  cut 
of  your  coat,  or  the  length  of  your  saber,  consequently,  the  Ma- 
jor’s success  in  the  home  department  of  his  diplomacy  was  not 
destined  for  the  same  happy  results  that  awaited  it  when  en- 
gaged about  drill  trousers  and  camp  kettles,  and  the  Misses  Dal- 
rymple  remained  Misses  through  every  clime  and  every  cam- 
paign. And  yet,  why  was  it  so  ? It  is  hard  to  say. 

What  would  men  have?  Matilda  was  a dark  haired,  dark- 
eyed, romantic-looking  girl,  with  a tall  figure  and  a slender 
waist,  with  more  poetry  in  her  head  than  wouM  have  turned  an 
ordinary  brain;  always  unhappy;  in  need  of  consolation,  never 
meeting  with  the  kindred  spdrit  that  understood  her;  destined  to 
walk  the  world  alone,  her  fair  thoughts  smothered  in  the  recesses 
of  her  heart.  Devilish  hard  to  stand  this,  when  you  began 
in  a kind  of  platonic  friendship  on  both  sides.  More  than  one 
poor  fellow  nearly  succumbed,  particularly  when  she  came  to 
quote  Cowley,  and  told  with  tears  in  her  eyes: 

“ There  are  hearts  that  live  and  love  alone.”  &c. 

Pm  assured  that  this  coup  de  grace  rarely  failed  in  being  fol- 
lowed by  a downright  avowal  of  open  love,  which,  somehow, 
what  between  the  route  coming,  what  with  waiting  for  leave 
from  home,  etc.,  never  got  further  than  a most  tender  scene,  and 
exchange  of  love  tokens;  and,  in  fact,  such  became  so  often  the 
termination,  that  Power  swears  Matt}^  had  to  make  a firm  re- 
solve about  cutting  off  any  more  hair,  fearing  a premature  bald- 
ness during  the  recruiting  season. 

Now  Fanny  had  selected  another  arm  of  the  service.  Hvr  hair 
was  fair,  her  eyes  blue,  laughing,  languishing,  mischief  -loving 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


m 


blue,  with  long  lashes,  and  a look  in  them  that  was  wont  to 
leave  its  impression  rather  longer  than  you  exactly  knew  of, 
then,  her  figure  wels  petite,  but  perfect;  her  feet  Canova  might 
have  copied;  and  her  hand  was  a study  for  Titian;  her  voice,  too» 
was  soft  and  musical,  but  full  of  that  gaiete  de  coeur  that  never 
fails  to  charm.  While  her  sister’s  style  waailpenseroso,  hers  was 
V allegro;  every  imaginable  thing,  place,  or  person,  supplied  food 
for  her  mirth,  and  her  sister’s  lovers  all  came  in  for  their  share, 
She  hunted  with  Smith  Barry’s  hounds;  she  yachted  Avith  the 
Cove  Club;  she  coursed;  practiced  at  a mark  with  a pistol;  and 
played  chicken  hazard  with  all  the  cavalry;  for,  let  it  be  re- 
marked, as  a physiological  fact,  Matilda’s  admirers  were  almost 
invariably  taken  from  the  infantr}^  while  Fanny’s  adorers  were 
as  regularly  dragoons.  Whether  the  former  be  the  romantic  arm 
of  the  service,  and  the  latter  be  the  more  adapted  to  dull  reali- 
ties, or  whether  the  phenomenon  had  any  other  explanation,  I 
leave  to  the  curious.  Now,  this  arrangement  f)roceeded  upon  that 
principle,  which  has  wrought  such  wonders  in  Manchester  and 
Sheffield — the  division  of  labor — was  a most  wise  and  equitable 
one,  each  having  her  own  separate  and  distinct  field  of  action, 
interference  was  impossible;  not  but  that  when,  as  in  the  pres- 
ent instance,  cavalry  was  in  the  ascendant,  Fanny  would  will- 
ingly spare  a dragoon  or  two  to  her  sister,  who  likewise  would 
repay  the  debt  when  occasion  offered. 

The  mamma — for  it  is  time  I should  say  something  of  the  head 
of  the  family — was  an  excessively  fat,  coarse-looking,  dark- 
skinned  personage,  of  some  fifty  years,  with  a voice  like  a boat- 
swain in  a quinsey.  Heaven  can  tell,  perhaps,  why  the  worthy 
Major  allied  his  fortunes  with  hers,  for  she  was  evidently  of  a 
very  inferior  rank  in  society;  could  never  have  been  aught  than 
downright  ugly;  and  I never  heard  that  she  brought  him  any 
money.  Spoiled  five,  the  national  amusement  of  her  age  and 
sex  in  Cork,  scandal,  the  changes  in  the  army  list,  the  failures 
in  speculation  of  her  luckless  husband,  the  forlorn  fortunes  of  the 
girls  her  daughters,  kept  her  in  occupation,  and  her  days  were 
passed  in  one  perpetual  unceasing  current  of  dissatisfaction  and 
ill  tern  per  with  all  around,  that  formed  a heavy  counterpoise  to 
the  fascinations  of  the  young  ladies.  The  repeated  jiltings  to 
which  they  had  been  subject  had  blunted  any  delicacy  upon  the 
score  of  their  marriage,  and,  if  the  newly  introduced  cornet  oi 
ensign  was  not  coming  forward,  as  became  him,  at  the  end  of  the 
requisite  number  of  days,  he  was  sure  of  receiving  a very  palpa- 
ble admonition  from  Mrs.  DaJrymple.  Hints,  at  first,  dimly 
shadowed  that  Matilda  was  not  in  spirits  this  morning;  that 
Fanny,  poor  child,  had  a headache — directed  especially  at  the 
culprit  in  question,  grew  gradually  into  those  little  motherly 
fondnesses  in  mamma,  that,  like  the  fascinations  of  the  rattle- 
snake,  only  lure  on  to  rum.  The  doomed  man  was  pressed  to 
dinner  when  all  others  were  permitted  to  take  their  leave;  he 
was  treated  like  one  of  the  family.  God  help  himl  After  dinner 
the  Major  would  keep  him  an  hour  over  his  wine,  discussing  thft 
misery  of  an  ill-assorted  marriage,  detailing  his  own  happiness 
m marrying  a woman  like  the  Tonga  Slan4er  I have  mentioned? 


128 


CHARLES  am  ALLEY. 


hinting  that  girls  should  he  brought  up,  not  only  to  become  com- 
panions to  their  husbands,  but  with  ideas  fitting  their  station,  if 
his  auditor  were  a military  man,  that  none  but  an  old  officer  (like 
him)  could  know  how  to  educate  girls  (like  his);  and  that,  feeling 
he  possessed  two  such  treasures,  his  whole  aim  in  life  was  to 
guard  and  keep  them,  a difficult  task,  when  proposals  of  the  most 
fiattering  kind  were  coming  constantly  before  him.  Then  fol- 
lowed a fresh  bottle,  during  which  the  Major  would  consult  his 
young  friend  upon  a very  delicate  affair,  no  less  than  a proposition 
for  the  hand  of  Miss  Matilda,  or  Fanny,  whichever  he  was 
supposed  to  be  soft  upon.  This  was  generally  a coup  de  inaitre. 
Should  he  still  resist,  he  w^as  handed  over  to  Mrs.  Dalrymple,  with 
a strong  indictment  against  him,  and  rarely  did  he  escape  a 
heavy  sentence.  Now,  is  it  not  strange,  that  two  really  pretty 
girls,  with  fully  enough  of  amiable  and  pleasing  qualities  to 
have  excited  the  attention  and  won  the  affection  of  many  a man, 
should  have  gone  on  for  years — for,  alas!  they  did  so  in  every 
climate,  under  every  sim — to  waste  their  sweetness  in  this  miser- 
able career  of  intrigue  and  mantrap,  and  yet  nothing  come  of  it  ? 
But  so  it  was;  the  first  question  a newly-landed  regiment  was 
asked,  if  coming  from  where  they  resided,  was:  “ Well,  how  are 
the  girls?”  “Oh,  gloriously.  Matty  is  there.”  “Ah,  indeed! 
poor  thing.”  “Has  Fan  sported  a new  habit?”  “Is  it  the  old 
gray  with  the  Iiussar  braiding,  confound  it!  that  was  seedy  when 
I saw  them  in  Corfu?  And  mother  Dal,  as  fat  and  vulgar  as 
ever.  Dawson  of  ours  was  the  last,  and  was  called  up  for  sen- 
tence when  we  were  ordered  away;  of  course,  he  bolted,”  &c. 
Such  was  the  invariable  style  of  question  and  answer  concerning 
them;  and,  although  some  few,  either  from  good  feeling  or  fas- 
tidiousness, relished  but  little  the  mode  in  which  it  had  become 
habitual  to  treat  them,  I grieve  to  say  that,  generally,  they  were 
pronounced  fair  game  for  every  species  of  flirtation  and  love- 
making,  without  any  “ intentions”  for  the  future.  I should  not 
have  trespassed  so  far  upon  my  readers’  patience,  were  I not,  in 
recounting  these  traits  of  my  friends  above,  narrating  matters  of 
history.  How  many  there  are  who  may  cast  their  eyes  upon 
these  pages,  that  will  say:  “Poor  Matilda!  I knew  her  at 
Gibraltar.  Little  Fanny  was  the  life  and  soul  of  us  all  in  Que- 
bec.” / 

“ Mr.  O’Malley,”  said  the  Adjutant,  as  I presjpnted  myself  in 
the  afternoon  of  my  arrival  in  Cork,  to  a short,  punchy  little 
red-faced  gentleman,  in  a short  jacket  and  ducks,  “you  are,  I 
perceive,  appointed  to  the  14th;  you  will  have  the  goodness  to 
appear  on  parade  to-morrow  morning.  The  riding- sc  bool  hours 

are . The  morning  drill  is ; evening  drill . Mr. 

Minchin,  you  are  a 14th  man,  1 believe;  no,  I beg  pardon,  a Car- 
bineer, but  no  matter — Mr.  O'Malley,  Mr.  Minchin;  Captain 
Dounie,  Mr.  O’Malley;  you’ll  dine  with  us  to-day,  and  to-morrow 
you  shall  be  entered  at  the  mess.” 

“ Yours  are  at  Santarem,  I believe,”  said  an  old  weather-beaten 
looking  officer  with  one  arm. 

“I’m  ashamed  to  say,  I know  nothing  whatever  of  them;  I re- 
ceived my  gazette  unexpectedly  enough,” 


CHAULm  aUALLEY. 


m 


Ever  in  Cork  before,  Mr.  O’Malley  ?” 

“ Never,”  said  1. 

“ Glorious  place,”  lisped  a white-eyelashed,  knocked-kneed  en- 
sign; “splendid  gals,  eh?” 

“ Ah,  Brunton,”  said  Mincbin,  “you  may  boast  a little;  but 
we  poor  devils.” 

“Know  the  Dais?”  said  the  hero  of  the  lisp,  addressing  me. 

, “I  haven’t  that  honor,”  I replied,  scarcely  able  to  guess 
whether  what  he  alluded  to  were  objects  of  the  picturesque,  or  a 
private  family. 

“ Introduce  him  then,  at  once,”  said  the  Adjutant;  “we’ll  all 
go  in  the  evening.  What  will  the  old  squaw  think  ?” 

“ Not  I,”  said  Minchin;  “ she  wrote  to  the  Duke  of  York  about 
my  helping  Matilda  at  supper,  and  not  having  any  honorable 
intentions  afterward.” 

“ We  dine  at  ‘The  George’  to-day,  Mr.  O’Malley,  sharp  seven; 

until  then .”  So  saying,  the  little  man  bustled  back  to  his 

accounts,  and  I took  my  leave  with  the  rest,  to  stroll  about  the 
town  till  dinner  time. 


CHAPTER  XXIVe 

THE  adjutant’s  DINNER. 

The  Adjutant’s  dinner  was  as  professional  an  affair  as  need 
be.  A circuit  or  a learned  society  could  not  have  been  more  ex- 
clusively devoted  to  their  own  separate  and  immediate  topics 
than  were  we;  pipeclay  in  all  its  varieties  came  on  the  tapis — 
the  last  regulation  cap — the  new  button — the  promotions — the 
general  orders — the  Colonel,  and  the  Colonel’s  wife — stoppages, 
and  the  mess  fund,  were  all  well  and  ably  discussed;  and,  strange 
enough,  while  the  conversation  took  this  wide  range,  not  a 
chance  allusion,  not  one  stray  hint  ever  wandered  to  the  brave 
fellows  who  were  covering  the  army  with  glory  in  the  Peninsula, 
nor  one  souvenir  of  him  that  was  even  then  enjoying  a fame  as 
a leader  second  to  none  in  Europe.  This  surprised  me  not  a little 
at  the  time;  but  I have  since  that  learned  how  little  interest  the 
real  services  of  an  army  possess  for  the  ears  of  certain  officials, 
who,  stationed  at  home  quarters,  pass  their  inglorious  lives  in 
the  details  of  drill,  parade,  mess-room  gossip,  and  barrack  scan- 
dal; such,  in  fact,  were  the  dons  of  the  present  dinner.  We  had 
a Commissary-General,  an  Inspecting  Brigade-Major  of  some- 
thing. a Physician  to  the  forces,  the  Adjutant  himself,  and  Major 
Dalrymple,  the  oipoZZoz  consisting  of  the  raw  ensign,  a newly- 
fledged  cornet,  Mr.  Sparks,  and  myself. 

The  Commissary  told  some  very  pointless  stories  about  his  own 
department;  the  Doctor  read  a dissertation  upon  Walcheren 
fever,  the  Adjutant  got  very  stupidly  tipsy,  and  Major  Dalrym- 
ple succeeded  in  engaging  the  three  juniors  of  the  party  to  tea, 
having  previously  pledged  us  to  purchase  nothing  whatever  of 
outfit,  without  his  advice;  he  well  knowing  (which  he  did)  how 
young  fellows  like  us  were  cheated,  and  resolving  to  be  a father 
to  us  (which  he  certainly  tried  to  be). 

As  we  rose  from  the  table  about  ten  o’clock,  I felt  how  soon 


130 


CHARLES  aMAtLEY. 


a few  such  dinners  wouhl  succeed  in  disenchanting  me  of  all  my 
military  illusions;  for,  } oung  as  I was,  I saw  that  the  Commis- 
sary was  a vulgar  bore;  the  Doctor  a humbug;  the  Adjutant  a 
sot,  and  the  Major  himself,  I greatly  suspected  to  be  an  old 
rogue. 

“You  are  coming  with  us,  Sparks,”  said  Major  Dalrymple, 
as  he  took  me  by  one  arm  and  the  ensign  by  the  other;  “ we 
are  going  to  have  a little  tea  with  the  ladies — ^not  five  minutes 
walk.” 

“ Most  happy,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Sparks,  with  a very  flattered  ex- 
pression of  countenance. 

‘‘  O’Malley,  you  know  Sparks,  and  Burton  too.”  This  served 
for  a species  of  introduction,  at  which  we  all  bowed,  simpered, 
and  bowed  again;  we  were  very  happy  to  have  the  pleasure, 
&c. 

“ How  pleasant  to  get  away  from  these  fellows!”  said  the  Ma- 
jor; “ they  are  so  uncommonly  prosy;  that  Commissary  with 
his  mess  beef,  and  old  Pritchard  with  black  doses  and  rigors; 
nothing  so  insufferable.  Besides,  in  reality,  a young  officer 
never  needs  all  that  nonsense;  a little  medicine  chest;  I’ll  get 
you  one  each  to-morrow  for  five  pounds;  no,  five  pounds  ten,  the 
same  thing — that  will  see  you  all  through  the  Peninsula.  Re- 
mind me  of  it  in  the  morning.”  This  we  all  promised  to  do,  and 
the  Major  resumed:  “ I say,  Sparks,  you’ve  got  a real  prize  in 
that  gray  horse,  such  a trooper  as  he  is.  O’Malley,  you’ll 
be  wanting  something  of  that  kind,  if  we  can  find  it  out  for 
you.” 

“ Many  thanks.  Major,  but  my  cattle  are  on  the  way  here 
already;  I’ve  only  three  horses,  but  I think  they  are  tolerably 
good  ones.” 

The  Major  now  turned  to  Burton,  and  said  something  in  a low 
tone,  to  which  the  other  replied:  “Why,  if  you  say  so,  I’ll  get 
it;  but  it’s  devilish  dear.” 

“ Dear!  my  young  friend!  cheap,  dog  cheap.” 

“ Only  think,  O’Malley,  a whole  brass  bed.  camp-stool,  basin- 
stand,  all  complete,  for  sixty  pounds;  if  it  was  not  that  a widow 
was  disposing  of  it  in' great  distress,  one  hundred  could  not  buy 
it.  Here  we  are;  come  along;  no  ceremony — mind  the  two 
steps;  that’s  it.  Mrs.  Dalrymple,  Mr.  O’Malley;  Mr.  Sparks,  Mr. 
Burton,  my  daughters.  Is  tea  over,  girls  ?” 

“ Why,  papa,  it’s  near  eleven  o’clock,”  said  Fanny,  as  she  rose 
to  ring  the  bell,  displaying,  in  so  doing,  the  least  possible  por- 
tion of  a very  well-turned  ankle. 

Miss  Matilda  Dal.  laid  down  her  book;  but,  seemingly  lost  in 
abstraction,  did  not  deign  to  look  at  us.  Mrs.  Dalrymple,  how- 
ever, did  the  honors  with  much  politeness;  and  having,  by  a few 
adroit  and  well-put  queries,  ascertained  everything  concerning 
our  rank  and  position,  seemed  perfectly  satisfied  that  our  intru- 
sion was  justifiable. 

While  my  confrere^  Mr.  Sparks,  was  undergoing  his  examina- 
tion, I had  time  to  look  at  the  ladies,  whom  I was  much  sur- 
prised at  finding  so  very  well  looking;  and,  as  the  ensign  had 
opened  a conversation  Vitli  Fanny,  I approached  my  chair 


CHABLES  aMALLEY, 


m 


toward  the  other,  and,  having  carelessly  turned  over  the  leaves 
of  the  book  she  had  been  reading,  drew  her  on  to  talk  of  it.  As 
my  acquaintance  with  young  ladies  hitherto  had  been  limited  to 
tliose  who  had  “ no  soul,*’  I felt  some  difficulty  at  first  in  keep- 
ing up  with  the  exalted  tone  of  my  fair  companion;  but,  by  let- 
ting her  take  the  lead  for  some  time,  I got  to  know  more  of  the 
ground.  We  went  on  tolerably  together,  every  moment  increas- 
ing my  stock  of  technicals,  which  were  all  that  was  needed  to 
sustain  the  conversation;  how  often  have  I found  the  same  plan 
succeed — whether  discussing  a question  of  law  or  medicine — 
with  a learned  professor  of  either;  or,  what  is  still  more  diffi- 
cult, canvassing  the  merits  of  a preacher,  or  a doctrine,  with  a 
serious  young  lady,  whose  ‘‘blessed  privileges”  were  at  first  a 
little  puzzling  to  comprehend! 

I so  contrived  it,  too,  that  Miss  Matilda  should  seem  as  much 
to  be  making  a convert  to  her  views  as  to  have  found  a person 
capable  of  sympathizing  with  her,  and  thus  long  before  the  lit- 
tle supper  with  which  it  was  the  Major’s  practice  to  regale  his 
friends  every  evening,  made  its  appearance,  we  had  established 
a perfect  understanding  together,  a circumstance  that  a by- 
stander might  have  remarked,  was  productive  of  a more  widely- 
diffused  satisfaction  than  I could  have  myself  seen  any  just 
cause  for.  Mr.  Burton  was  also  progressing,  as  the  Yankees  say, 
with  the  sister.  Sparks  had  booked  himself  as  purchaser  of 
military  stores  enough  to  make  the  campaign  of  the  whole  globe, 
and  then  we  were  all  evidently  fulfilling  our  various  vocations, 
and  affording  perfect  satisfaction  to  our  entertainers! 

Then  came  the  spatch-cock,  and  the  sandwiches,  and  the 
negus,  which  Fanny  first  mixed  for  papa,  and,  subsequently, 
with  some  little  pressing,  for  Mr.  Burton;  Matilda  the  romantic 
assisted  me.  Sparks  helped  himself;  then  we  laughed,  and  told 
stories;  pressed  Sparks  to  sing,  which,  as  he  declined,  we  only 
pressed  the  more.  How  invariably,  by  the  bye,  is  it  the  custom 
to  show  one’s  appreciation  of  anything  like  a butt,  by  pressing 
him  for  a song!  The  Major  was  m great  spirits,  told  us  anec- 
dotes of  his  early  life  in  India,  and  how  he  once  contracted  to 
supply  the  troops  with  milk,  and  made  a purchase  in  consequence 
of  some  score  of  cattle,  which  turned  out  to  be  bullocks.  Ma- 
tilda recited  some  lines  from  Pope  in  my  ear,  Fanny  challenged 
Burton  to  a rowing  match.  Sparks  listened  to  all  around  him, 
and  Mrs.  Dairy mple  mixed  a very  little  weak  punch,  which  Dr. 
Lucas  had  recommended  to  her,  to  take  the  last  thing  at  night. 
Nodes  coenoeque  deorum.  Say  what  you  will,  these  were  very 
jovial  little  reunions.  The  girls  were  decidedly  very  pretty;  we 
were  in  high  favor,  and,  when  we  took  leave  at  the  door  with  a 
very  cordial  shake  hands,  it  was  with  no  arrier^^  ^ensee  we 
promised  to  see  them  in  the  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  ENTANGLEMENT. 

When  we  think  for  a moment  over  all  the  toils,  and  the 
anxieties,  all  the  fevered  excitement  of  a grande  passion,  it  is 


182 


CHARLES  CMALLEY, 


not  a little  singular  that  love  should  so  frequently  be  elicited  by 
a state  of  mere  idleness;  and  yet  nothing,  after  all,  is  so  predis- 
posing a cause  as  this.  Where  is  the  man  between  eighteen  and 
eight-and-thirty — may  I say  forty? — who,  without  any  very 
pressing  duns,  and  having  no  taste  for  strong  liquor  and  rouge 
et  noir,  can  possibly  lounge  through  the  long  hours  of  his  day, 
without,  at  least,  fancying  himself  in  love  ? The  thousand  little 
occupations  it  suggests  become  a necessity  of  existence;  its  very 
worries  are  like  the  wholesome  opposition  that  purifies  and 
strengthens  the  frame  of  a free  state.  Then,  what  is  there  half 
so  sweet  as  the  refiective  flattery  which  results  from  our  appre- 
ciation of  an  object  who,  in  return,  deems  us  the  ne- plus  ultra 
of  perfection?  There  it  is,  in  fact;  that  confounded  bump  of 
self-esteem  does  it  all,  and  has  more  imprudent  matches  to 
answer  for  than  all  the  occipital  protuberances  that  ever  scared 
poor  Harriet  Martineau. 

Now,  to  apply  my  moralizing.  I very  soon,  to  use  the  mess 
phrase,  got  devilish  spooney  about  the  ‘‘  Dais.”  The  morning 
drill,  the  riding  school,  and  the  parade  were  almost  fervently 
consigned  to  a certain  military  character  that  shall  be  nameless, 
as  detaining  me  from  some  appointment  made  the  evening  be- 
fore; for,  as  I supped  there  each  night,  a party  of  one  kind  or 
another  was  always  planned  for  the  day  following.  Sometimes 
we  had  a boating  excursion  to  Cove;  sometimes  a picnic  at 
Featy;  now  a rowing  party  to  Clanmire,  or  a ride,  at  which  I 
furnished  the  cavalry.  The  doings  were  all  under  my  special 
direction,  and  I thus  became  speedily  the  organ  of  the  Dairy m- 
ple  family;  and  the  simple  phrase:  “ It  was  Mr.  O’Malley’s 
arrangement,”  “ Mr.  O’Malley  wished  it,”  was  like  the  “moi  le 
rot  ” of  Louis  XIV. 

Though  all  this  while  we  continued  to  carry  on  most  pleas- 
antly, Mrs  Dalrymple,  I could  perceive,  did  not  entirely  sympa- 
thize with  our  projects  of  amusement.  As  an  experienced 
engineer  might  feel,  when  watching  the  course  of  some  storm- 
ing projectile — some  brilliant  congreve—flying  over  a besieged 
fortress,  yet  never  touching  the  walls,  nor  harming  the  inhabi- 
tants, so  she  looked  on  at  all  these  demonstrations  of  attack  with 
no  small  impatience,  and  wondered  when  would  the  breach  be 
reported  practicable.  Another  puzzle  also  contributed  its  share 
of  anxiety — which  of  the  girls  was  it  ? To  be  sure,  he  spent  three 
hours  every  morning  with  Fanny;  but  then  he  never  left  Ma- 
tilda the  whole  evening.  He  had  given  his  miniature  to 
one,  a locket  with  his  hair  was  a present  to  the  sister.  The 
Major  thinks  he  saw  his  arm  round  Matilda’s  waist  in  the 
garden;  the  housemaid  swears  she  saw  him  kiss  Fanny  in  the 
pantry.  Matilda  smiles  when  we  talk  of  his  name  with  her 
sister’s;  Fanny  laughs  outright,  and  says:  “ Poor  Matilda,  the 
man  never  dreamed  of  her.”  This  is  becoming  uncomfortable; 
the  Major  must  ask  bis  intentions;  it  is,  certainly,  one  or  the 
other;  but  then,  we  have  a right  to  know  which.  Such  was  a 
very  condensed  view  of  Mrs.  Dalrymple’ s reflections  on  this 
important  topic — a view  taken  with  her  usual  tact  and  clear- 
sightedness. 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


ins 

Matters  were  in  this  state,  when  Power  at  length  arrived  in 
Cork  to  take  command  of  our  detachment,  and  make  the  final 
preparations  for  our  departure.  I had  been,  as  usual,  spending 
the  evening  at  the  Major’s,  and  had  just  reached  my  quarters, 
when  I found  my  frieud  sitting  at  my  fire,  smoking  his  cigar, 
and  solacing  himself  with  a little  brandy  and  water. 

“ At  last, ’’said  he,  as  I entered,  ‘‘  at  last! — why,  where  the  deuce 
have  you  been  till  this  hour — past  two  o’clock  ? There  is  no  ball, 
no  assembly  going  on,  eh  ?” 

“No,”  said  I,  half  blushing  at  the  eagerness  of  the  inquiry; 
“ I’ve  been  spending  the  evening  with  a friend.” 

“Spending  the  evening!  say  rather  the  night.  Why,  con- 
found you,  man,  what  is  there  in  Cork  to  keep  you  out  of  bed 
to  near  three  ?” 

“Well,  if  you  must  know.  I’ve  been  supping  at  Major  Dal- 
rymple’s — a devilish  good  fellow — with  two  such  daughters,” 
Ahem!”  said  Power,  shutting  one  eye  knowingly,  and  giv- 
ing a look  like  a Yorkshire  horse-dealer,  “ go  on,*^ 

“Why,  what  do  you  mean?” 

“ Go  on — continue.” 

“ I’ve  finished;  I’ve  nothing  more  to  tell.” 

“ So  they’re  here,  are  they?”  said  he  reflectively, 

“Who?”  said  I. 

“ Matilda  and  Fanny,  to  be  sure.” 

‘ Why,  you  know  them,  then  ?” 

“ I should  think  I do.” 

“ Where  have  you  met  them  ?” 

“Where  have  I not?  When  I was  in  the  rifles  they  were 
quartered  at  Zante.  Matilda  was  just  then  coming  it  rather 
strong  with  Villiers  of  ours,  a regular  greenhorn.  Fanny,  also, 
nearly  did  for  Harry  Nesbit,  by  riding  a hurdle-race.  Then  they 
left  for  Gibraltar  in  the  year — what  year  was  it ” 

“ Come,  come,”  said  I,  “ this  is  a humbug;  the  girls  are  quite 
young;  you  just  have  heard  their  names.” 

“ Well,  perhaps  so;  only  tell  me  which  is  your  peculiar  weak- 
ness, as  they  say  in  the  west,  and  maybe  I’ll  convince  you.” 

“ Oh!  as  to  that,”  I said,  laughing,  “ I’m  not  very  far  gone  on 
either  side.” 

“ Then,  Matilda,  probably,  has  not  tried  you  with  Cowley,  eh? 
You  look  a little  Pink — ‘ There  are  hearts  that  live  and  love 
alone.’  Oh,  poor  fellow,  you’ve  got  it.  By  Jove,  how  you’ve 
been  coming  it  through  in  ten  days!  She  ought  not  to  have  got 
to  that  for  a month,  at  least;  and  how  like  a young  one  it  was  to 
be  caught  by  the  poetry!  Oh!  Master  Charley,  I thought  that 
the  steeple  chaser  might  have  done  most  with  your  Galway 
heart;  the  girl  in  the  gray  habit,  that  sings  Muddidero,  ought 
to  have  been  the  prize.  Halt!  by  St.  George,  but  that  tickles 
you  also!  Why,  zounds,  if  I go  on,  probably,  at  this  rate.  I’ll 
find  a tender  spot  occupied  by  the  ‘ black  lady  herself.’  ” 

It  was  no  use  concealing,  or  attempting  to  conceal,  anything 
from  my  inquisitive  friend;  so  I mixed  my  grog,  and  opened  my 
whole  heart;  told  how  I had  been  conducting  myself  for  the  en- 
tire preceding  fortnight^  and  when  I concluded,  sat  silently 


134 


CHARLES  CMALLET. 


awaiting  Power’s  verdict,  as  though  a jury  were  about  to  pro- 
nounce upon  my  life. 

“ Have  you  ever  written?” 

“Never,  except,  perhaps,  a few  lines  with  tickets  for  the 
theater,  or  something  of  that  kind.” 

“ Have  you  copies  of  your  correspondence  ?” 

“ Of  course  not.  Why,  what  do  you  mean?” 

“ Has  Mrs.  Dal.  been  ever  present,  or,  as  the  French  say,  has 
she  assisted  at  any  of  your  tender  interviews  with  the  young 
ladies  ?” 

“ I’m  not  aware  that  one  kisses  a girl  before  mamma.” 

“ I’m  not  speaking  of  that.  I merely  allude  to  flirtation.” 

“ Oh!  I suppose  she  has  seen  me  attentive.” 

“Very  awkward,  indeed!  There  is  only  one  point  in  your 
favor;  for,  as  your  attentions  were  not  decided,  and,  as  the  law 
does  not  as  yet  permit  of  polygamy ” 

“ Come,  come,  you  know  I never  thought  of  marrying.” 

“ Ah!  but  they  did.” 

“ Not  a bit  of  it.” 

“ Ay,  but  they  did.  What  do  you  wager  but  that  the  major 
asks  your  intentions,  as  he  calls  it,  the  moment  he  hears  the 
transport  has  arrived?” 

“By  Jove,  now  you  remind  me,  he  asked  this  evening  when 
he  could  have  a few  minutes  private  conversation  with  me  to- 
morrow; and  I though  it  was  about  some  confounded  military- 
chest,  or  sea-store,  or  one  of  his  infernal  contrivances  that  he  every 
day  assures  me  are  indispensable;  though  if  every  officer  had 
only  as  much  baggage  as  I have  got,  under  his  directions,  it 
would  take  two  armies  at  least  to  carry  the  effects  of  the  flght- 
ing  one.” 

“ Poor  fellow!”  said  he,  starting  upon  his  legs,  “what  a burst 
you’ve  made  of  it!”  So  saying,  he  began  in  a nasal  twang: 

“I  publish  the  bans  of  marriage  between  Charles  O’Malley, 

of  his  late  Majesty’s  Fourteenth  Dragoons,  and Dalrymple, 

spinster,  of  this  city ” 

“ I’ll  be  hanged  if  you  do,  though,”  said  I,  seeing  pretty  clearly 
by  this  time  something  of  the  estimation  my  friends  were  held 
in.  “ Come,  Power,  pull  me  through,  like  a dear  fellow,  pull 
me  through  without  doing  anything  to  hurt  the  girl’s  feelings.” 

“ Well,  we’ll  see  about  it,”  said  he.  “ We’ll  see  about  it  in  the 
morning;  but,  at  the  same  time,  let  me  assure  you,  the  affair  is 
not  so  easy  as  you  may,  at  first  blush,  suppose.  These  worthy 
people  have  been  so  often  ‘ done,’  to  use  the  cant  phrase,  before, 
that  scarcely  a ruse  remains  untried.  It  is  of  no  use  pleading 
that  your  family  won’t  consent — that  your  prospects  are  null — 
that  you  are  ordered  for  India — that  you  are  engaged  elsewhere 
— that  you  have  nothing  but  your  pay — that  you  are  too  young, 
or  too  old;  all  such  reasons,  good  and  valid  with  any  other  fam- 
ily, will  avail  you  little  here.  Neither  will  it  serve  your  cause 
that  you  may  be  warranted  by  a doctor  as  subject  to  periodical 
fits  of  insanity,  monojnaniacal  tendencies  to  cut  somebody’s 
throat,  &c.  Bless  your  heart,  man,  they  have  a soul  above  such 
littleness.  They  care  nothing  for  consent  of  friends,  means,  age, 


CHARLT.S  aUALLEY. 


135 

health,  climate,  prospects,  or  temper.  Firmly  believing  matri- 
mony to  be  a lottery,  they  are  not  superstitious  about  the  num- 
ber they  pitch  upon;  provided  only  that  they  get  a ticket,  they 
are  content.” 

“ Then,  it  strikes  me,  if  what  you  say  is  correct,  that  I have 
no  earthly  chance  of  escape,  except  some  kind  friend  will  under- 
take to  shoot  me.”  ; 

That  has  been  also  tried.”  \ 

“ Why,  how  do  you  mean?”  i 

“A  mock  duel,  got  up  at  mess;  we  had  one  at  Malta.  Poor 
Vickers  was  the  hero  of  that  affair.  It  was  right  well  planned, 
too.  One  of  the  letters  was  suffered  by  mere  accident  to  fall  into 
Mrs.  Dal’s  hands,  and  she  was  quite  prepared  for  the  event  when 
he  was  reported  shot  the  next  morning.  Then  the  young  lady, 
of  course,  whether  she  cared  or  not,  was  obliged  to  be  perfectly 
unconcerned,  lest  the  story  of  engaged  affections  might  get 
wind,  and  spoil  another  market.  The  thing  went  on  admirably, 
till  one  day,  some  few  months  later,  they  saw,  in  a confounded 
army  list,  that  the  late  George  Vickers  was  promoted  to  the 
Eighteenth  Dragoons,  so  that  the  trick  was  discovered,  and  is, 
of  course,  stale  at  present.” 

“ Then  could  I not  have  a wife  already,  and  a large  family  of 
interesting  babies  ?” 

“ No  go — only  swell  the  damages  when  they  come  to  prose- 
cute; besides,  your  age  and  looks  forbid  the  assumption  of  such 
a fact.  No,  no,  we  must  go  deeper  to  work.” 

“ But  where  shall  we  go  ?”  said  I impatiently,  “ for  it  appears  to 
me,  these  good  people  have  been  treated  to  every  trick  and  sub- 
terfuge that  ever  ingenuity  suggested.” 

“ Come,  I think  I have  it;  but  it  will  need  a little  more  reflec- 
tion. So,  now  let  us  to  bed.  ITl  give  you  the  result  of  my 
lucubrations  at  breakfast;  and,  if  I mistake  not,  we  may  get 
you  through  this  without  any  ill  consequences.  Good-night, 
then,  old  boy;  and  now  dream  away  of  your  lady-love  till  our 
next  meeting.” 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  PREPARATION. 

To  prevent  needless  repetitions  in  my  story,  I shall  not  record 
here  the  conversation  which  passed  between  my  friend  Power 
and  myself  on  the  morning  following,  at  breakfast;  suffice  it 
to  say,  that  the  plan  proposed  by  him  for  my  rescue,  was  one  I 
agreed  to  adopt,  reserving  to  myself,  incase  of  failure,  apis  alter 
of  which  I knew  not  the  meaning,  but  of  whose  efficacy  Power 
assured  me  I need  not  doubt. 

“If  all  fail,”  said  he,  “if  every  bridge  breaks  down  beneath 
you,  and  no  road  of  escape  be  left,  why,  then,  I believe  you  must 
have  recourse  to  another  alternative.  Still  I should  wish  to 
avoid  it,  if  possible;  and  I put  it  to  you,  in  honor,  not  to  employ 
it  unless  as  a last  expedient;  you  promise  me  this  ?” 

“ Of  course,”  said  I,  with  great  anxiety  for  the  dreaded  final 
pleasure.  ‘ ^ What  is  it 


m 


CHARLES  &MALLET, 


He  paused,  smiled  dubiously,  and  resumed:  “ And,  after  all; 
but,  to  be  sure,  there  will  not  be  need  for  it;  the  other  plan  will 
do — must  do.  Come,  come,  O’Malley,  the  Admiralty  say  that 
nothing  encourages  drowning  in  the  navy  like  a life-buoy;  the 
men  have  such  a prospect  of  being  picked  up,  that  they  don’t 
mind  falling  overboard;  so,  if  I give  you  this  life  preserver  of 
mine,  you’ll  not  swim  an  inch;  is  it  not  so,  eh?” 

“ Far  from  it,”  said  I;  “I  shall  feel  in  honor  bound  to  exert 
myself  the  more,  because  I now  see  how  much  it  costs  you  to 
part  with  it.” 

“Well,  then,  hear  it;  when  everything  fails,  when  all  your 
resources  are  exhausted;  when  you  have  totally  lost  your  mem- 
ory in  fact,  and  your  ingenuity  in  excuses,  say — but  mind,  Char- 
ley, not  till  then — say  that  you  must  consult  your  friend,  Cap- 
tain Power,  of  the  14th;  that’s  all.” 

“ And  is  this  it?”  said  I,  quite  disappointed  at  the  lame  and 
impotent  conclusion  to  all  the  high-sounding  exordium  ; is  this 
all?” 

“ Yes,”  said  he,  “that  is  all;  but  stop,  Charley,  is  not  that  the 
Major  crossing  the  street  there  ? yes,  to  be  sure  it  is,  and,  by 
Jove,  he  has  got  on  the  old  braided  frock  this  morning;  had  you 
not  told  me  one  word  of  your  critical  position,  I should  have 
guessed  there  was  something  in  the  wind  from  that;  that  same 
vestment  has  caused  many  a stout  heart  to  tremble,  that  never 
quailed  before  a shot  or  shell.” 

“ How  can  that  be?  I should  like  to  hear.” 

“ Whjr,  my  dear  boy,  that’s  his  explanation  coat,  as  we  called 
it  at  Gibraltar;  he  was  never  known  to  wear  it  except  when 
asking  some  poor  fellow’s  ‘intentions.’  He  would  no  m(»re  think 
of  sporting  it  as  an  every-day  affair  than  the  Chief  Justice  would 
go  cock-shooting  in  his  black  cap  and  ermine.  Come,  he  is 
bound  for  your  quarters,  and  as  it  will  not  answer  our  plans  to 
let  him  see  you  now,  3K)u  had  better  hasten  down-stairs,  and  get 
round  by  the  back  way  into  George’s  street,  and  you’ll  be  at  hia 
house  before  he  can  return.” 

Following  Power’s  direction’s,  I seized  my  foraging  cap,  and 
got  clear  out  of  the  premises  before  the  Major  had  reached  them. 
It  was  exactly  noon  as  I sounded  my  loud  and  now  well-known 
/summons  at  the  Major’s  knocker;  the  door  was  quickly  opened, 
’ but  instead  of  dashing  up-stairs,  four  steps  at  a time,  as  was  my 
wont,  to  the  drawing  room,  I turned  short  into  the  dingy-looking 
little  parlor  on  the  right,  and  desired  Matthew,  the  venerable 
servant  of  the  house,  to  say  that  I wished  particularly  to  see 
Mrs.  Dalrymple  for  a few  minutes,  if  the  hour  were  not  incon- 
venient. 

There  was  something  perhaps  of  excitement  in  my  manner — 
some  flurry  in  my  look,  or  some  trepidation  in  my  voice — or 
perhaps  it  was  the  unusual  hour — or  the  still  more  remarkable 
circumstance  of  my  not  going  at  once  to  the  drawing-room,  that 
raised  some  doubts  in  Matthew’s  mind  as  to  the  object  of  my 
visit,  and,  instead  of  at  once  complying  with  my  request,  to  in- 
form Mrs.  Dalrymple  that  I was  there,  he  cautiously  closed  the 
door,  and,  taking  a quick  but  satisfactory  glance  round  the 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


187 


apartment  to  assure  himself  that  we  were  alone,  he  placed  his 
back  against  it,  and  heaved  a deep  sigh. 

We  were  both  perfectly  silent;  I,  in  total  amazement  at  what 
the  old  man  could  possibly  mean;  he,  following  up  the  train  of 
his  own  thoughts,  comprehended  little  or  nothing  of  my  sur- 
prise, and  evidently"  was  so  engrossed  by  his  reflections,  that  he 
had  neither  ears  nor  eyes  for  aught  around  him.  There  was  a 
most  singular  semi- comic  expression  in  the  old  withered  face, 
that  nearly  made  me  laugh  at  first;  but,  as  I continued  to  look 
steadily  at  it,  I perceived  that,  despite  the  long  worn  wrinkles 
that  low  Irish  drollery  and  fun  had  furrowed  around  the  angles 
of  his  mouth,  the  real  character  of  his  look  was  one  of  sorrowful 
compassion. 

Doubtless  my  readers  have  read  many  interesting  narratives 
wherein  the  unconscious  traveler  in  some  remote  land  had  been 
warned  of  a plan  to  murder  him,  by  some  mere  passing  wink,  a 
look,  a sign,  which  some  one,  less  steeped  in  crime,  less  hardened 
in  iniquity  than  his  fellows,  had  ventured  for  his  rescue.  Some- 
times, according  to  the  taste  of  the  narrator,  the  interesting  in- 
dividual is  an  old  woman,  sometimes  a young  one;  sometimes  a 
black-bearded  bandit,  sometimes  a child,  and,  not  unfrequently, 
a dog  is  humane  enough  to  do  this  service.  One  thing,  however, 
never  varies;  be  the  agent  biped  or  quadruped,  dumb  or  speech- 
ful, young  or  old,  the  stranger  invariably  takes  the  hint,  and 
gets  off  scot  free  for  his  sharpness.  This  never  varying  trick  on 
the  doomed  man,  I had  often  been  skeptical  enough  to  suspect; 
however,  I had  not  been  many  minutes  a spectator  of  the  old 
man’s  countenance  when  I most  thoroughly  recanted  my  errors, 
and  acknowledged  myself  wrong.  If  ever  the  look  of  a man 
conveyed  a warning,  his  did;  but  there  was  more  in  it  than  even 
that;  there  was  a tone  of  sad  and  pitiful  compassion,  such  as  an 
old  gray-bearded  rat  might  be  supposed  to  put  on  at  seeing  a 
young  and  inexperienced  one  opening  the  hinge  of  an  iron  trap, 
to  try  its  efficacy  upon  his  neck.  Many  a little  occasion  had  pre- 
sented itself,  during  my  intimacy  with  the  family,  of  doing 
Matthew  some  small  services,  of  making  him  some  trifling  pres- 
ents; so  that,  when  he  assumed  before  me  the  gesture  and  look 
I have  mentioned,  I was  not  long  in  deciphering  his  intentions. 

“ Matthew,”  screamed  a sharp  voice,  which  I recognized  at 
once  for  that  of  Mrs.  Dairy  mple;  “Matthew!  where  is  the  old 
fool  ?” 

But  Matthew  heard  not,  or  heeded  not. 

“ Matthew,  Matthew,  I say.” 

“I’m  cornin’,  ma’am,”  said  he,  with  a sigh,  as,  opening  the 
parlor-door,  he  turned  upon  me  one  look  of  such  import  that 
only  the  circumstances  of  my  story  can  explain  its  force,  or 
my  reader’s  own  ingenious  imagination  can  supply. 

“ Never  fear,  my  good  old  friend,”  said  I,  grasping  his  hand 
warmly,  and  leaving  a guinea  in  the  palm;  “ never  fear.” 

“ God  grant  it,  sir,”  said  he  settling  on  his  wig  in  preparation 
for  his  appearance  in  the  drawing-room. 

“Matthew!  the  old  wretch!” 

“ Mr.  O’Malley,”  said  the  often  called  Matthew,  as,  opening 


138 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


the  door,  he  announced  me  unexpectedly  among  the  ladies  ther» 
assembled,  who,  not  hearing  of  my  approach,  were  evidently 
not  a little  surprised  and  astonished. 

Had  I really  been  the  enamored  swain  that  the  Dalrymple 
family  were  willing  to  believe,  I half  suspect  that  the  prospect 
before  me  might  have  cured  me  of  my  passion.  A round 
bullet  head,  papillotee  with  the  ‘‘ Cork  Observer,”  where  still- 
born babes  and  maids  of  all  work  were  descanted  upon  in  very 
legible  type,  was  now  the  substitute  for  the  classic  front  and 
Italian  ringlets  of  la  belle  Matilda;  while  the  chaste  Fanny  her- 
self, whose  feet  had  been  a fortune  for  a statuary,  was  in  the 
most  slatternly  and  slip-shod  attire,  pacing  the  room  in  a tower- 
ing rage  at  some  thing,  place,  or  person  unknown  (to  me.)  If 
the  ballet  master  at  the  academie  could  only  learn  to  get  his 
imps,  demons,  angels,  and  goblins  “off”  half  as  rapidly  as  the 
two  young  ladies  retreated  on  my  being  announced,  I answer 
for  the  piece  so  brought  out  having  a run  for  half  the  season. 
Before  my  eyes  had  regained  their  position  parallel  to  the  plane 
of  the  horizon,  they  were  gone,  and  I found  myself  alone  with 
Mrs.  Dalrymple.  Now  she  stood  her  ground,  partly  to  recover 
the  retreat  of  the  main  body;  partly,  too,  because — representing 
the  baggage  wagons,  ammunition  stores,  hospital  staff,  &c. — her 
retirement  from  the  field  demanded  more  time  and  circumspec- 
tion than  the  light  brigade. 

Let  not  my  readers  suppose  that  the  mere  Dalrymple  was  so 
perfectly  faultless  in  costume  that  her  remaining  was  a matter 
of  actual  indifference;  far  from  it.  She  evidently  had  a struggle 
for  it;  but  a sense  of  duty  decided  her;  and,  as  Ney  doggedly 
held  back  to  cover  the  retreating  forces  on  the  march  from  Mos- 
cow, so  did  she  resolutely  lurk  behind  till  th(3  last  fiutter  of  the 
last  petticoat  assured  her  that  the  fugitives  were  safe.  Then  did 
she  hesitate  for  a moment  what  course  to  take;  but,  as  I assumed 
my  chair  beside  her,  she  composedly  sat  down,  and,  crossing  her 
hands  before  her,  waited  for  an  explanation  of  this  ill-timed  visit. 

Had  the  Horse  Guards,  in  the  plenitude  of  their  power  and  the 
perfection  of  their  tastes,  ordained  that  the  79th  and  42d  regi- 
ments should,  in  future,  in  lieu  of  their  respective  tartans,  wear 
flannel  kilts  and  black  worsted  hose,  I could  readily  have  fallen 
into  the  error  of  mistaking  Mrs.  Dalrymple  for  a Highlander  in 
the  new  regulation  dress;  the  philabeg  finding  no  mean  repre- 
sentation in  a capacious  pincushion  that  hung  down  from  her 
girdle,  while  a pair  of  shears,  not  scissors,  corresponded  to  the 
dirk.  After  several  ineffectual  efforts  upon  her  part  to  make  her 
vestment  (I  know  not  its  fitting  designation)  cover  more  of  her 
legs  than  its  length  could  possibly  effect,  and,  after  some  most 
bland  smiles  and  half  blushes  at  deshabille,  &c.,  were  over,  and 
that  I had  apologized  most  humbly  for  the  unusually  early  hour 
of  my  call,  I proceeded  to  open  my  negotiations  and  unfurl  my 
banner  for  the  fray. 

“ The  old  Racehorse  has  arrived  at  last,”  said  I,  with  a half 
sigh;  “and  I believe  that  we  shall  not  obtain  a very  long  time 
for  our  leave-taking;  so  that,  trespassing  upon  your  very  great 
kindness,  I have  ventured  upon  an  early  call>” 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


139 


“The  Racehorse  surely  can’t  sail  to-morrow,”  said  Mrs  Dal- 
rymple,  whose  experience  of  such  matters  made  her  a very  com- 
petent judge;  “her  stores ” 

“ Are  taken  in  already,”  said  I,  “ and  an  order  from  the  Horse 
Guards  commands  us  to  embark  in  twenty -four  hours;  so  that, 
in  fact,  we  scarcely  have  time  to  look  about  us.” 

“Have  you  seen  the  Major?”  inquired  Mrs.  Dalrymple, 
eagerly. 

“ Not  to-day,”  I replied  carelessly;  “ but,  of  course,  during  the 
morning  we  are  sure  to  meet.  I have  many  thanks  j^et  to  give 
him  for  all  his  most  kind  attentions.” 

“ I know  he  is  most  anxious  to  see  you,”  said  Mrs.  Dalrymple, 
with  a very  peculiar  emphasis,  and  evidently  desiring  that  I 
should  inquire  the  reason  of  this  anxiety.  I,  however,  most 
heroically  forebore  indulging  my  curiosity,  and  added  that  I 
should  endeavor  to  find  him  on  my  way  to  the  barracks;  and 
then,  hastily  looking  at  my  watch,  I pronounced  it  a full  hour 
later  than  it  really  was,  and  promising  to  spend  the  evening — 
my  last  evening  with  them — took  my  leave  and  hurried  away, 
in  no  small  flurry,  to  be  once  more  out  of  reach  of  Mrs.  Dal  • 
rymple’s  fire,  which  I every  moment  expected  to  open  upon  me. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  SUPPER. 

Power  and  I dined  together  tete-a-tete  at  the  hotel,  and  sat 
chatting  over  my  adventure  with  the  Dalrymples  till  nearly  nine 
o’clock. 

“ Come,  Charley,”  said  he  at  length,  “ I see  your  eye  wander- 
ing very  often  toward  the  time- piece;  another  bumper,  and  I’ll 
let  you  off.  What  shall  it  be  ?” 

“What  you  like,”  said  I,  upon  whom  three  bottles  of  strong 
claret  had  already  made  a very  satisfactory  impression. 

“ Then  champagne  for  the  coup-de-grace.  Nothing  like  your 
vin  mousseux  for  a critical  moment;  every  bubble  that  rises 
sparkling  to  the  surface  prompts  some  bright  thought,  or  elicits 
tome  brilliant  ide^,  that  would  only  have  been  drowned  in  your 
more  sober  fluids.  Here’s  to  the  girl  you  love,  whoever  she  be.” 

“ To  her  bright  eyes  then  be  it,”  said  I,  clearing  off  a brim- 
ming goblet  of  nearly  half  the  bottle,  while  my  friend  Power 
seemed  multiplied  into  any  given  number  of  gentlemen  standing 
amid  something  like  a glass  manufactory  of  decanters.” 

“ I hope  you  feel  steady  enough  for  this  business,”  said  my 
friend,  examining  me  closely  with  the  candle. 

“I’m  an  archdeacon,”  muttered  I,  with  oi;ie  eye  involuntarily 
closing. 

“ You’ll  not  let  them  double  on  you?” 

“ Trust  me,  old  boy,”  said  I,  endeavoring  to  look  knowing. 

“I  think  you’ll  do,”  said  he;  “so  now  march;  I’ll  wait  for 
you  here,  and  we’ll  go  on  board  together;  for  old  Bloater,  the 
skipper,  says  he’ll  certainly  weigh  by  daybreak.” 

“ Till  then,”  said  I,  as  opening  the  door,  I proceeded  very 
cautiously  to  descend  the  stairs,  affecting  all  the  time  consider- 


40 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


able  nonchalance,  and  endeavoring  as  well  as  my  thickened  ut- 
terance would  permit,  to  hum,  Oh  I love  is  the  soul  of  an  Irish 
dragoon.” 

If  I was  not  ill  the  most  perfect  possession  of  my  faculties  in 
the  house,  the  change  to  the  open  air,  certainly,  but  little  contrib- 
uted to  their  restoration,  and  I scarcely  felt  myself  in  the  street 
when  my  brain  became  absolutely  one  whirl  of  maddened  and 
confused  excitement.  Time  and  space  are  nothing  to  a man 
thus  enlightened,  and  so  they  appeared  to  me;  scarcely  a second 
had  elapsed  when  I found  myself  standing  in  the  Dalrymple’s 
drawing-room. 

If  a few  hours  had  done  much  to  metamorphose  me,  certes, 
they  had  done  something  for  my  fair  friends  also;  anything 
more  unlike  what  they  appeared  in  the  morning  can  scarce- 
ly be  imagined.  Matilda  in  black,  with  her  hair  in  heavy 
madonna  bands  upon  her  fair  cheek  now  paler,  even  than 
usual,  never  seemed  so  handsome;  while  Fanny,  in  a light  blue 
dress,  with  blue  flowers  in  her  hair,  and  a blue  sash,  looked  the 
most  lovely  piece  of  coquetry  ever  man  set  his  eyes  upon.  The 
old  Major,  too,  was  smartened  up,  and  put  into  an  old  regimental 
coat  that  he  had  worn  during  the  siege  of  Gibraltar;  and  lastly, 
Mrs.  Dairy mple  herself  was  attired  in  a very  imposing  costume, 
that  made  her,  to  my  not  over-accurate  judgment,  look  very 
like  an  elderly  bishop  in  a flame-colored  cassock.  Sparks  was 
the  only  stranger,  and  wore  upon  his  countenance,  as  I entered, 
a look  of  very  considerable  embarrassment,  that  even  my  thick- 
sightedness could  not  fail  of  detecting. 

Parlez  moi  de  Vamitie,  ray  friends.  Talk  to  me  of  the  warm 
embrace  of  your  earliest  friend,  after  years  of  absence;  the 
cordial  and  heartfelt  shake-hands  of  your  old  school  companion, 
when,  in  after  years,  a chance  meeting  has  brought  you  together, 
and  you  have  had  time  and  opportunity  for  becoming  distin- 
guished and  in  repute,  and  are  rather  a good  hit  to  be  known  to, 
than  otherwise;  of  the  close  grip  you  give  your  second  when  he 
comes  up  to  say,  that  the  gentleman  with  the  loaded  detonator 
opposite  won’t  fire — that  he  feels  he’s  in  the  wrong.  Any  or  all 
of  these  together,  very  effective  and  powerful  though  they  be, 
are  light  in  the  balance,  when  compared  with  the  two-handed 
compression  you  receive  from  the  gentleman  that  expects  you 
to  marry  one  of  his  daughters. 

“ My  dear  O’Malley,  how  goes  it?  Thought  you’d  never  come,*’ 
said  he,  still  holding  me  fast  and  looking  me  full  in  the  face,  to 
calculate  the  extent  to  which  my  potations  rendered  his  flattery 
feasible. 

“Hurried  to  death  with  preparations  I suppose,”  said  Mrs. 
Dairy  mple,  smiling  blandly;  “ Fanny  dear,  some  tea  for  him.’’ 

“Oh,  mamma,  he  does  not  like  all  that  sugar,  surely  not,’’  said 
she,  looking  up  with  a most  sweet  expression,  as  though  to  say, 
“ I at  least  know  his  tastes.” 

“I  believe  you  were  going  without  seeing  us,”  whispered 
Matilda,  with  a very  glassy  look  about  the  corner  of  her  eyes. 

Eloquence  was  not  just  then  my  forte,  so  that  I contented  my- 


CBARLE8  O^MALLET. 


141 


self  with  a very  intelligible  look  at  Fanny,  and  a tender  squeeze 
of  Matilda’s  hand,  as  I seated  myself  at  the  table. 

Scarcely  had  1 placed  myself  at  the  tea-table  with  Matilda  be- 
side, and  Fanny  opposite  me,  each  vieing  with  the  other  in  their 
delicate  and  kind  attentions,  when  I totally  forgot  all  my  poor 
friend  Power’s  injunctions  and  directions  for  my  management. 
It  is  true,  I remembered  that  there  was  a scrape  of  some  kind  or 
other  to  be  got  out  of,  and  one  requiring  some  dexterity,  too,  but 
what,  or  with  wliom,  I could  not  for  the  life  of  me  determine. 
What  the  wine  had  begun,  the  bright  eyes  completed,  and  amid 
the  witchcraft  of  silky  tresses,  and  sweet  looks,  I lost  all  my  re- 
flection, till  the  impression  of  an  impending  difficulty  remained 
fixed  in  my  mind,  and  I tortured  my  poor,  weak,  and  erring  in- 
tellect to  detect  it.  At  last,  and  by  a mere  chance,  my  eyes  fell 
upon  Sparks,  and,  by  what  mechanism  I contrived  it  I knew  not, 
but  I immediately  saddled  him  with  the  whole  of  my  annoy- 
ances, and  attributed  to  him  and  to  his  fault  any  embarassment 
I labored  under. 

The  physiological  reason  of  the  fact  I’m  very  ignorant  of,  but 
for  the  truth  and  frequency  I can  well  vouch,  that  there  are 
certain  people,  certain  faces,  certain  voices,  certain  whiskers, 
legs,  waistcoats,  and  guard  chains,  that  inevitably  produce  the 
most  striking  efects  upon  the  brain  of  a gentleman  already  ex- 
cited by  wine,  and  not  exactly  cognizant  of  his  own  peculiar 
fallacies. 

These  effects  are  not  produced  merely  among  those  who  are 
quarrelsome  in  their  cups,  for  I call  the  whole  14th  to  witness 
that  I am  not  such;  but,  to  any  person  so  disguised,  the  inoffen- 
siveness of  the  object  is  no  security  on  the  other  hand,  for  I once 
knew  an  eight-day  clock  kicked  down  a barrack  stairs  by  an  old 
Scotch  major,  because  he  thought  it  was  laughing  at  him.  To 
this  source  alone,  whatever  it  be,  can  I attribute  the  feeling  of 
rising  indignation  with  which  I contemplated  the  luckless  cornet, 
who,  seated  at  the  fire,  unnoticed  and  uncared  for,  seemed  a 
very  unworthy  object  to  vent  anger  or  ill-temper  upon. 

“Mr.  Sparks,  I fear,”  said  I,  endeavoring  at  ihe  time  to  call 
up  a look  of  very  sovereign  contempt,  “Mr.  Sparks,  I fear,  re- 
gards my  visit  here  in  the  light  of  an  intrusion.” 

Had  poor  Mr.  Sparks  been  told  to  proceed  incontinently  up 
the  chimney  before  him  he  could  not  have  looked  more  aghast. 
Reply  was  quite  out  of  his  power;  so  sudden  and  unexpectedly 
was  this  charge  of  mine  made  that  he  could  only  stare  vacantly 
from  one  to  the  other,  while  I,  warming  with  my  subject,  and 
perhaps — but  I’ll  not  swear  it — stimulated  by  a gentle  pressure 
from  a soft  hand  near  me,  continued:  “If  he  thinks,  for  one 
moment,  that  my  attentions  in  this  family  are  in  any  way  to  be 
questioned  by  him,  I can  only  say ” 

“ My  dear  O’Malley,  my  dear  boy,”  said  the  Major,  with  the 
look  of  a father-in-law  in  his  eye. 

“ The  spirit  of  an  officer  and  a gentleman  spoke  there,”  said 
Mrs.  Dalrymple,  now  carried  beyond  all  prudence,  by  the  hope 
that  my  attack  might  arrouse  my  dormant  friend  into  a counter 
declaration;  nothing,  however,  was  further  from  poor  Sparks, 


14S  CHARLES  OMALLET. 

who  began  to  think  he  had  been  unconsciously  drinking  tea 
with  five  lunatics. 

“ If  he  supposes,’^  said  I,  rising  from  my  chair,  “ that  his  si- 
lence will  pass  with  me  as  any  palliation ” 

*‘Oh  dear,  oh  dear!  there  will  be  a duel;  papa,  dear,  why 
don’t  you  speak  to  Mr.  O’Malley  ?” 

“ There  now,  O’Malley,  sit  down,  don’t  you  see  you  are  quite 
in  error  ?” 

“ Then  let  him  say  so,”  said  I fiercely. 

‘‘  Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure,”  said  Fanny;  ‘‘do  say  it,  say  anything 
he  likes,  Mr.  Sparks.” 

“I  must  say,”  said  Mrs.  Dalrymple,  “however  sorry  I may 
feel  in  my  own  house  to  condemn  any  one,  that  Mr.  Sparks  is 
very  much  in  the  wrong.” 

Poor  Sparks  looked  like  a man  in  a dream. 

“ If  he  will  tell  Charles,  Mr.  O’Malley,  I mean,”  said  Matilda, 
blushing  scarlet,  “ that  he  meant  nothing  by  what  he  said ” 

“ But  I never  spoke — never  opened  my  lips,”  cried  out  the 
wretched  man,  at  length,  sufficiently  recovered  to  defend  him- 
self. 

“ Oh,  Mr.  Sparks!” 

“Oh,  Mr.  Sparks!” 

“ Oh,  Mr.  Sparks!”  chorused  the  three  ladies. 

While  the  old  Major  brought  up  the  rear  with  an  “Oh! 
Sparks,  I must  say ” 

“ Then,  by  all  the  saints  in  the  calendar,  I must  be  mad,” 
said  he,  “but  if  I have  said  anything  to  offend  you,  O’Malley,  I 
am  sincerely  sorry  for  it.” 

“ That  will  do,  sir,  ” said  I,  with  a look  of  royal  condescension 
at  the  amende  I considered  as  somewhat  late  in  coming,  and 
resumed  my  seat.  This  little  intermezzo,  it  might  be  supposed, 
was  rather  calculated  to  interrupt  the  harmony  of  our  evening; 
not  so,  however.  I had  apparently  acquitted  myself  like  a hero, 
and  was  evidently  in  a white  heat,  in  which  I could  be  fashioned 
into  any  shape.  Sparks  was  humbled  so  far  that  he  would 
probably  feel  it  a relief  to  make  any  proposition ; so  that  by  our 
opposite  courses,  we  had  both  arrived  at  a point  at  which  all  the 
dexterity  and  address  of  the  family  had  been  long  since  aiming 
without  success.  Conversation  then  resumed  its  flow,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  every  trace  of  our  late  fracas  had  disappeared 

By  degrees  I felt  myself  more  and  more  disposed  to  turn  my 
attention  toward  Matilda,  and,  dropping  my  voice  into  a lower 
tone,  opened  a flirtation  of  a most  determined  kind.  Fanny  had, 
meanwhile,  assumed  a place  beside  Sparks,  [and,  by  the 
muttered  tones  that  passed  between  them,  I could  plainly 
perceive  that  they  were  similarly  occupied.  The  Major  took 
up  the  “ Southern  Reporter,”  of  which  he  appeared  deep  in  the 
contemplation,  while  Mrs.  Dal.  herself  buried  her  head  in  her 
embroidery,  and  neither  heard  nor  saw  anything  around  her. 

I know,  unfortunately,  but  very  little  what  passed  between 
myself  and  my  fair  companion;  I can  only  say  that,  when  sup- 
per was  announced  at  twelve  (an  hour  later  than  usual),  I was 
Bitting  upon  the  sofa,  with  ray  arm  round  her  waist,  my  cheek 


CHABLES  a MALLET.  14S 

so  close,  that  already  her  lovely  tresses  brushed  my  forehead, 
and  her  breath  fanned  my  burning  brow. 

“ Supper,  at  last,”  said  the  Major,  with  a loud  voice,  to  arouse 
us  from  our  trance  of  happiness,  without  taking  any  mean  op- 
portunity of  looking  unobserved.  “Supx)er,  Sparks;  O’Malley, 
come  now.  It  will  be  some  time  before  we  all  meet  this  way 
again.” 

“ Perhaps  not  so  long,  after  all,”  said  I knowingly. 

“Very  likely  not  ” echoed  Sparks,  in  the  same  key. 

“ Pve  proposed  for  Fanny,”  said  he,  whispering  in  my  ear 

“ Matilda’s  mine,”  replied  I,  with  the  look  of  an  emperor. 

“A  word  with  you.  Major,”  said  Sparks,  his  eyes  flashing 
with  enthusiasm,  and  his  cheek  scarlet;  “ one  word;  I’ll  not  de- 
tain you.” 

They  withdrew  into  a corner  for  a few  seconds,  during  which 
Mrs.  Dalrymple  amused  herself  by  wondering  what  the  secret 
could  be;  why  Mr.  Sparks  couldn’t  tell  her;  and  Fanny,  mean- 
while, pretpnded  to  look  for  something  at  a side-table,  and  never 
turned  her  head  round. 

‘ ‘ Then  give  me  your  hand,”  said  the  Major,  as  he  shook  Sparks’s 
with  a warmth  of  whose  sincerity  there  could  be  no  question. 
“ Bess,  my  love,”  said  he,  addressing  his  wife;  the  remainder 
was  lost  in  a whisper;  but  whatever  it  was,  it  evidently  re- 
dounded to  Sparks’s  credit,  for  the  next  moment  a repetition  of 
the  hand -shaking  took  place,  and  Sparks  looked  the  happiest  of 
men. 

“A  mon  thought  I,  “now,”  as  I touched  the  Major’s 

arm,  and  led  him  toward  the  window.  What  I said  may  be  one 
day  matter  of  Major  Dalrymple’s  memoirs,  if  he  ever  writes 
them;  but,  for  my  part,  T have  not  the  least  idea.  I only  know 
that,  while  I was  yet  speaking,  he  called  over  Mrs.  Dal.,  who, 
in  a frenzy  of  joy,  seized  me  in  her  arms  and  embraced  me; 
after  which  I kissed  her,  shook  hands  with  the  Major,  kissed 
Matilda’s  hand,  and  laughed  prodigiously,  as  though  I had  done 
something  confoundedly  droll — a sentiment  evidently  partici- 
pated in  by  Sparks,  who  laughed  too,  as  did  the  others;  and  a 
merrier,  happier  party  never  sat  down  to  supper. 

“ Make  your  company  pleased  with  themselves,”  says  Mr.  Walk- 
er, in  his  Original  work  qpon  dinner-giving,  “ and  everything 
goes  on  well.”  Now,  Major  Dalrymple,  without  having  read  the 
authority  in  question,  probably  because  it  was  not  written  at  the 
time,  understood  the  principle  fully  as  well  as  the  police-magis- 
trate, and  certainly  was  a proficient  in  the  practice  of  it. 

To  be  sure,  he  possessed  one  grand  requisite  for  success;  he 
seemed  most  perfectly  happy  himself.  There  was  that  air 
degage  about  him  which,  when  an  old  man  puts  it  on  among  his 
juniors,  is  so  very  attractive.  Then  the  ladies,  too,  were  evi- 
dently well  pleased;  and  the  usually  austere  mamma  had  relaxed 
her  “ rigid  front  ” into  a smile,  in  which  any  habitue  of  the  house 
could  have  read  our  fate. 

We  eat,  we  drank,  we  ogled,  smiled,  squeezed  hands  beneath 
the  table,  and,  in  fact,  so  pleasant  a party  had  rarely  assembled 
round  the  Major’s  mahogany.  As  for  me,  I made  a full  disclo- 


144 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


sure  of  the  most  burning  love,  backed  by  a resolve  to  marry  my 
fair  neighbor,  and  settle  upon  her  a considerably  larger  part  of 
my  native  country,  than  I had  ever  even  rode  over.  Sparks,  on 
the  other  side,  had  opened  his  fire  more  cautiously;  but,  whether 
taking  courage  from  my  boldness,  or  perceiving  with  envy  the 
greater  estimation  I was  held  in,  was  now  going  the  pace  fully 
as  fast  as  myself,  and  had  commenced  explanations  of  his  in- 
tentions with  regard  to  Fanny  that  evidently  satisfied  her  friendSc 
Meanwhile,  the  wine  was  passing  very  freely,  and  the  hints  half 
uttered  an  hour  before,  began  now  to  be  more  openly  spoken  and 
canvassed. 

Sparks  and  I hob-nobbed  across  the  table,  and  looked  unspeak- 
able things  at  each  other;  the  girls  held  down  their  heads; 
Mrs.  Dal.  wiped  her  eyes  and  the  Major  pronounced  himself  the 
happiest  father  in  Europe. 

It  was  now  wearing  late,  or  rather  early;  some  gray  streaks 
of  dubious  light  were  faintly  forcing  their  way  through  the  half- 
closed  curtains,  and  the  dread  thought  of  parting  first  presented 
itself.  A calvary  trumpet,  too,  at  this  moment  sounded  a call 
that  roused  us  from  our  trance  of  pleasure,  and  warned  us  that 
our  minutes  were  few.  A dead  silence  crept  over  all,  the  solemn 
feeling  which  leave-taking  ever  inspires  was  uppermost  and  none 
spoke.  The  Major  was  first  to  break  it.  ‘‘  O’Malley,  my  friend, 
and  you,  ^r.  Sparks;  I must  have  a word  with  you,  boys,  before 
we  part.^> 

“ Here  let  it  be  then.  Major,”  said  I,  holding  his  arm,  as  ho 
turned  to  leave  the  room;  “ here,  now;  we  are  all  so  deeply  in- 
terested, no  place  is  so  fit.” 

“Well,  then,”  said  the  Major,  “ as  you  desire  it,  now  that  I’m 
to  regard  you  both  in  the  light  of  my  sons-in-law — at  least, 
as  pledged  to  become  so — it  is  only  fair  as  respects ” 

“ I see,  I understand  perfectly,”  interrupted  I,  whose  passion 
for  conducting  the  whole  affair  myself  was  gradually  gaining 
on  me;  “ what  you  mean  is,  that  we  should  make  known  our  in- 
tentions before  some  mutual  friends  ere  we  part;  eh.  Sparks? 
eh.  Major?” 

“ Right,  my  boy,  right  on  every  point.” 

“Well,  then,  I thought  of  all  that;  and,  if  you  just  send  your 
servant  over  to  my  quarters  for  our  Captain;  he’s  the  fittest  per- 
son you  know,  at  such  a time.” 

“ How  considerate,”  said  Mrs  Dalrymplee 

“ How  perfectly  just  his  idea  is!”  said  the  Major. 

“We’ll  then,  in  his  presence,  avow  our  present  and  unalter- 
able determination  as  regards  your  fair  daughters,  and  as  the 
time  is  short ” 

Here  I turned  toward  Matilda,  who  placed  her  arm  within 
mine;  Sparks  possessed  himself  of  Fanny’s  hand,  while  the 
Major  and  his  wife  consulted  for  a few  seconds. 

“Well,  O’Malley,  all  you  propose  is  perfect.  Now,  then,  for 
the  Captain;  who  shall  he  inquire  for?” 

“Oh,  an  old  friend  of  yours,”  said  I,  jocularly;  “you’ll  be 
glad  to  see  him.” 

“Indeed!”  said  all  togeth; 


CHARLES  CMALLET. 


14S 


“Oh,  yes,  quite  a surprise,  I’ll  warrant  it.” 

“ Who  can  it  be,  who  on  earth  is  it  ?” 

“You  can’t  guess,”  added  I,  with  a very  knowing  look; 
“ knew  you  at  Corfu;  a very  intimate  friend,  indeed,  if  he  tells 
the  truth.” 

A look  of  something  like  embarrassment  passed  around  the 
circle  at  these  words,  while  I,  wishing  to  end  the  mystery,  re- 
sumed: 

“ Come,  then,  who  can  be  so  proper  for  all  parties  at  a mo- 
ment like  this,  as  our  mutual  friend.  Captain  Power  ?” 

Had  a shell  fallen  into  the  cold  grouse  pie  in  the  midst  of  us, 
scattering  death  and  destruction  on  every  side,  the  effect  could 
scarcely  have  been  more  frightful  than  that  my  last  words  pro- 
duced. Mrs.  Dairy mple  fell  with  a sough  upon  the  floor  mo- 
tionless as  a corpse;  Fanny  threw  herself  screaming  upon  a 
sofa;  Matilda  went  off  into  strong  hysterics  upon  the  hearth- 
rug; while  the  Major,  after  giving  me  a look  a manaic  might 
have  envied,  rushed  from  the  room  in  search  of  his  pistols,  with 
a most  terrific  oath  to  shoot  somebody,  whether  Sparks  or  my- 
self, or  both  of  us,  on  his  return,  I cannot  say.  Fanny’s  sobs, 
and  Matilda’s  cries,  assisted  by  a dunning  process  by  Mrs.  Dal.’s 
heels  upon  the  floor,  made  a most  infernal  concert,  and  effect- 
ually prevented  anything  like  thought  or  reflection;  and,  in  all 
probability,  so  overwhelmed  was  I at  the  sudden  catastrophe  I 
had  so  innocently  caused,  I should  have  waited  in  due  patience 
for  the  Major’s  return,  had  not  Sparks  seized  my  arm,  and  cried 
out: 

“Run  for  it,  O’Malley,  cut  like  fun,  my  boy,  or  we’re  done 
for.” 

“Run — why? — what  for?— where?”  said  I,  stupefied  by  the 
scene  before  me. 

“ Here  he  is,”  called  out  Sparks,  as,  throwing  up  the  window, 
he  sprung  out  upon  the  stone  sill,  and  leaped  into  the  street.  I 
followed  mechanically,  and  jumped  after  him,  just  as  the  Major 
had  reached  the  window;  a ball  whizzed  by  me,  that  soon  de- 
termined my  further  movements;  so,  putting  on  all  speed,  I 
flew  down  the  street,  turned  the  corner,  and  regained  the  hotel 
breathless  and  without  a hat,  while  Sparks  arrived  a moment 
later,  as  a pale  as  a ghost,  and  trembling  like  an  aspen  leaf. 

“Safe,  by  Jove!”  said  Sparks,  throwing  himself  into  a chair, 
and  panting  for  breath. 

“Safe,  at  last,”  said  I,  without  well  knowing  why  or  for 
what. 

“You’ve  had  a sharp  run  of  it,  apparently,”  said  Power, 
coolly,  and  without  any  curiosity  as  to  the  cause;  “and  now, 
let  us  on  board;  there  goes  the  trumpet  again.  The  skipper  is 
a surly  old  fellow,  and  we  must  not  lose  his  tide  for  him.”  So 
saying,  he  proceeded  to  collect  his  cloaks,  cane,  &c.,  and  get 
ready  for  departure. 


146 


CHARLES  aMALLET. 


CHAPTEE  XXVIII. 

THE  VOYAGE. 

When  I awoke  from  the  long  sound  sleep  which  succeeded 
my  last  adventure,  I had  some  difficulty  in  remembering  where 
I was,  or  how  I had  come  there.  From  my  narrow  berth  I 
looked  out  upon  the  now  empty  cabin,  and,  at  length,  some  misty 
and  confused  sense  of  my  situation  crept  slowly  over  me.  I 
opened  the  little  shutter  beside  me  and  looked  out.  The  bold 
headlands  of  the  southern  coast  were  frowning,  in  sullen  and 
dark  masses,  about  a couple  of  miles  distant,  and  I perceived 
that  we  were  going  fast  through  the  water,  which  was  beauti- 
fully calm  and  still.  I now  looked  at  my  watch;  it  was  past 
eight  o’clock;  and,  as  it  must  evidently  be  evening  from  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  sky,  I felt  that  I had  slept  soundly  for  above 
twelve  hours. 

In  the  hurr^  of  departure,  the  cabin  had  not  been  set  to 
rights,  and  there  lay  every  species  of  lumber  and  luggage  in  all 
imaginable  confusion.  Trunks,  gun- cases,  baskets  of  eggs, 
umbrellas,  hampers  of  sea-store,  cloaks,  foraging  caps,  maps, 
and  sword-belts  were  scattered  on  every  side — while  the  debris 
of  a dinner,  not  over  remarkable  for  its  propriety  in  table  equi- 
page, added  to  the  ludicrous  effect.  The  heavy  tramp  of  a foot 
overhead  denoted  the  step  of  some  one  taking  his  short  walk  of 
exercise;  while  the  rough  voice  of  the  skipper,  as  he  gave  the 
word  to  “ Go  about,”  all  convinced  me  that  we  were  at  last  under 
way,  and  off  to  “ the  wars.” 

The  confusion  our  last  evening  on  shore  produced  in  my  brain 
was  such,  that  every  effort  I made  to  remember  anything  about 
it  only  increased  my  difficulty,  and  I felt  myself  in  a web  so 
tangled  and  inextricable,  that  all  endeavor  to  escape  free  was  im- 
possible. Sometimes  I thought  that  I had  really  married  Matilda 
Dairy mple;  then,  I supposed  that  the  father  had  called  me  out 
and  wounded  me  in  a duel;  and,  finally,  I had  some  confused 
notion  about  a quarrel  with  Sparks,  but  what  for,  when,  and 
how  it  ended,  I know  not.  How  tremendously  tipsy  I must  have 
been  was  the  only  conclusion  I could  draw  from  all  these  con- 
flicting doubts;  and,  after  all,  it  was  the  only  thing  like  fact 
thar  beamed  upon  my  mind.  How  I had  come  on  board  and 
reached  my  berth  was  a matter  I reserved  for  future  inquiry ; 
resolving,  that  about  the  real  history  of  my  last  night  on  shore 
I should  ask  no  questions,  if  others  were  equally  disposed  to  let 
it  pass  in  silence. 

I next  began  to  wonder  if  Mike  had  looked  after  all  my  lug- 
gage, trunks,  etc.,  and  whether  he  himself  had  been  forgotten 
in  our  hasty  departure.  About  this  latter  point  I was  not  des- 
tined for  much  doubt;  for  a well-known  voice  from  the  foot  of 
the  companion  ladder  at  once  proclaimed  my  faithful  follower, 
and  evidenced  his  feelings  at  his  departure  from  his  home  and 
country. 

Mr.  Free  was,  at  the  time  I mention,  gathered  up  like  a ball 
opposite  a small,  low  window  that  looked  upon  the  bluff  head' 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


147 


lands,  now  fast  becoming  dim  and  misty  as  the  night  approached. 
He  was  apparently  in  low  spirits;  and  hummed  in  a species  of 
low,  droning  voice,  the  following  ballad,  at  the  end  of  each  verse 
of  which  came  an  Irish  chorus,  which,  to  the  erudite  ,in  such 
matters,  will  suggest  the  air  of  Meddirederoo: 

“MICKEY  FREE’S  LAMENT.” 

“ Then  fare  ye  well,  ould  Erin  dear; 

To  part — my  heart  does  ache  well. 

From  Carrickfergus  to  Cape  Clear 
I’ll  never  see  your  equal. 

And  though  to  foreign  parts  we’re  bound, 

Where  cannibals  may  ate  us, 

We’ll  ne’er  forget  the  holy  ground 
Of  potteen  and  potatoes. 

Meddirederoo  aroo,  aroo,”  &o. 

, “ When  good  St.  Patrick  banished  frogs 

And  shook  them  from  his  garment, 

: He  never  thought  we’d  go  abroad, 

= To  live  upon  such  varmint; 

Nor  quit  the  land  where  whisky  grew 
To  wear  King  George’s  button, 

Take  vinegar  for  mountain  dew, 

And  toads  for  mountain  mutton. 

Meddirederoo  aroo,  aroo,”  &c. 

“I  say,  Mike,  stop  that  confounded  keen,  and  tell  me  where 
are  we.” 

“ Off  the  ould  head  of  Kinsale,  sir.” 

“ Where  is  Captain  Power?” 

“ Smoking  a cigar  on  deck  with  the  Captain,  sir.” 

“ And  Mr.  Sparks  ?” 

“ Mighty  sick  in  his  own  state-room.  Oh!  but  it’s  himself  has 
enough  of  glory — bad  luck  to  it — by  this  time;  he’d  make  your 
heart  break  to  look  at  him.” 

“ W'ho  have  you  got  on  board  besides?” 

“ The  Ad  jutant’s  here,  sir,  and  an  ould  gentleman  they  call  the 
Major.” 

“ Not  Major  Dalrymple,”  said  I,  starting  up  with  terror  at  the 
thought;  “eh,  Mike?” 

No,  sir,  another  Major,  his  name’s  Mulroon,  or  Muldoon,  or 
something  like  that.” 

“ Monsoon,  you  son  of  a lumper  potatoe,”  cried  out  a surly, 
gruff  voice  from  a berth  opposite,  “ Monsoon.  Who’s  at  the 
other  side?” 

“ Mr.  O’Malley— 14th,”  said  I,  by  way  of  introduction. 

“My  service  to  you,  then,”  said  the  voice;  “going  to  join 
your  regiment  ?” 

“ Yes,  and  you,  are  you  bound  on  a similar  errand  ?” 

“No,  Heaven  be  praised!  I’m  attached  to  the  commissariat, 
and  only  going  to  Lisbon.  Have  you  had  any  dinner?” 

“ Not  a morsel;  have  you  ?” 

“ No  more  than  yourself;  but  I always  lie  by  for  three  or  four 
days  this  way,  till  I get  used  to  the  confounded  rocking  and 
pitching;  and,  with  a little  grog  and  some  sleep,  get  over  the 


148 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


time  gayly  enough.  Steward,  another  tumbler  like  the  last; 

ttiere — very  good — that  will  do.  Your  good  health,  Mr. ; 

what  was  it  you  said?” 

“O’Malley.” 

“ O’Malley— your  good  health— good-night.”  And  so  ended 
our  brief  colloquy,  and,  in  a few  minutes  more,  a very  decisive 
snore  pronounced  my  friend  to  be  fulfilling  his  precept  for  killing 
the  hours. 

I now  made  an  effort  to  emancipate  myself  from  my  crib,  and 
at  last  succeeded  in  getting  on  the  floor,  where,  after  one  chassez 
at  a small  looking-glass  opposite,  followed  by  a very  impetuous 
rush  at  a little  brass  stove,  in  which  I was  interrupted  by  a trunk, 
and  laid  prostrate,  I finally  got  my  clothes  on,  and  made  my 
way  to  the  deck.  Little  attuned  as  was  my  mind  at  the  moment 
to  admire  anything  like  scenery,  it  was  impossible  to  be  un- 
moved by  the  magnificent  prospect  before  me.  It  was  a beau- 
tiful evening  in  summer;  the  sun  had  set  above  an  hour  before, 
leaving  behind  him  in  the  w'est  one  vast  arch  of  rich  and  bur- 
nished gold,  stretching  along  the  whole  horizon,  and  tipping  all 
the  summits  of  the  heavy  rolling  sea,  as  it  rolled  on  unbroken 
by  foam  or  ripple,  in  vast,  moving  mountains  from  the  far 
coast  of  Labrador.  We  were  already  in  blue  water,  though  the 
bold  cliffs  that  were  to  form  our  departing  point  were  but  a 
few  miles  to  leeward.  There  lay  the  lofty  bluff  of  old  Kinsale, 
whose  crest,  overhanging,  peered  from  a summit  of  some  hun- 
dred feet  into  the  deep  water  that  swept  its  rocky  base;  many  a 
tangled  lichen  and  straggling  bough  trailing  in  the  flood  beneath. 
Here  and  there  upon  the  coast,  a twinkling  gleam  proclaimed 
the  hut  of  the  fisherman,  whose  swift  hookers  had  more  than 
once  shot  by  us,  and  disappeared  in  a moment.  The  wind, 
which  began  to  fall  at  sunset,  freshened  as  the  moon  rose,  anil 
the  good  ship,  bending  to  the  breeze,  lay  gently  over,  and  rushed 
through  the  waters  with  a sound  of  gladness.  I was  alone  upon 
the  deck;  Power  and  the  Captain,  whom  I expected  to  have 
found,  had  disappeared  somehow,  and  I was,  after  all,  not  sorry 
to  be  left  to  my  own  reflections  uninterrupted. 

My  thoughts  turned  once  more  to  my  home— to  my  first,  my 
best,  earliest  friend,  whose  hearth  I had  rendered  lonely  and 
desolate;  and  my  heart  sunk  within  me  as  I remembered  it. 
How  deeply  I reproached  myself  for  the  selfish  impetuosity  with 
which  I had  ever  followed  any  rising  fancy — any  new  and  sud- 
den desire,  and  never  thought  of  him  whose  every  hope  was  in, 
whose  every  wish  was  for,  me!  Alas!  alas!  my  poor  uncle! 
how  gladly  would  I resign  every  prospect  my  soldier’s  life  may 
hold  out,  with  all  its  glittering  promise,  and  all  the  flattery  of 
success,  to  be  once  more  beside  you;  to  feel  your  warm  manly 
grasp;  to  see  your  smile;  to  hear  your  voice;  to  be  again  where 
all  our  best  feelings  are  born  and  nurtured,  and  our  cares  as- 
suaged, our  joys  more  joyed  in,  and  our  griefs  more  wept — at 
home!  These  very  words  have  more  music  to  my  ears  than  all 
the  softest  strains  that  ever  siren  sung.  They  bring  us  back  to 
all  we  have  loved,  by  ties  that  are  never  felt  but  through  such 
Bimple  associations.  And  in  the  earlier  memories  called  up,  our 


CHARLES  HMALLEV, 


I4d 

childish  feelings  come  back  once  more  to  visit  us,  like  better 
spirits,  as  we  walk  amid  the  dreary  desolation  that  years  of  care 
and  uneasiness  have  spread  around  us. 

Wretched  must  he  be  who  ne’er  has  felt  such  bliss;  and  thrice 
happy  he,  who  feeling  it  knows  that  still  there  lives  for  him  that 
same  early  home,  with  all  its  loved  inmates,  its  every  dear  and 
devoted  object  waiting  for  his  coming  and  longing  for  his  ap- 
proach. 

Such  were  my  thoughts  as  I stood  gazing  at  the  bold  line  of 
coast  now  gradually  growing  more  and  more  dim  while  evening 
fell,  and  we  continued  to  stand  further  out  to  sea.  So  absorbed 
was  I all  this  time  in  my  reflections,  that  I never  heard  the 
voices  which  now  suddenly  burst  upon  my  ears  quite  close  beside 
me.  I turned,  and  saw  for  the  first  time  that,  at  the  end  of  the 
quarter-deck,  stood  what  is  called  a round-house,  a small  cabin, 
from  which  the  sounds  in  question  proceeded.  I walked  gently 
forward,  and  peeped  in,  and  certainly  anything  more  in  con- 
trast with  my  late  reverie  need  not  be  conceived.  There  sat  the 
skipper,  a bluff,  round-faced,  jolly-looking  little  tar,  mixing  a 
bowl  of  punch  at  a table,  at  which  sat  my  friend  Power,  the  Ad- 
jutant, and  a tall,  meager-looking  Scotchman,  whom  I once  met 
in  Cork,  and  heard  that  he  was  the  doctor  of  some  infantry  reg- 
iment. Two  or  three  black  bottles,  a paper  of  cigars,  and  a tal- 
low candle,  were  all  the  table  equipage;  but,  certainly,  the  party 
seemed  not  to  want  for  spirits  and  fun,  to  judge  from  the  hearty 
bursts  of  laughter  that  every  moment  pealed  forth,  and  shook 
the  little  building  that  held  them.  Power,  as  usual  with  him, 
seemed  to  be  taking  the  lead,  and  was  evidently  amusing  himself 
with  the  peculiarities  of  his  companions. 

“Come,  Adjutant,  fill  up;  here’s  to  the  campaign  before  us; 
we  at  least  have  nothing  but  pleasure  in  the  anticipation;  no 
lovely  wife  behind;  no  charming  babes  to  fret,  and  be  fretted 
for,  eh?” 

“ Vara  true,”  said  the  Doctor,  who  was  mated  with  a tartar; 
“ ye  maun  have  less  regrets  at  leaving  home;  but  a married  man 
is  no  entirely  denied  his  ain  consolations.” 

“Good  sense  in  that,”  said  the  Skipper;  “a  wide  berth  and 
gplenty  of  sea  room  are  not  bad  things  now  and  then.” 

’ “Is  that  your  experience  also  ?”  said  Power,  with  a knowing 
Took.  “Come,  come.  Adjutant,  we’re  not  so  ill  off,  you  see;  but, 
by  Jove,  I can’t  imagine  how  it  is  a man  ever  comes  to  thirty 
without  having  at  least  one  wife,  without  counting  his  colonial 
possessions,  of  course.” 

“Yes,”  said  the  Adjutant,  with  a sigh,  as  he  drained  his  glass 
to  the  bottom.  “ It  is  develish  strange — women,  lovely  womeni” 
here  he  filled  and  drank  again,  as  though  he  had  been  proposing 
a toast  for  his  own  peculiar  drinking. 

“Isay,  now,”  resumed  Power,  catching  at  once  that  there 
was  something  working  in  his  mind;  “ I say  now,  how  happen- 
ed it  that  you,  a right  good-looking,  soldier-like  fellow,  that 
always  made  his  way  among  the  fair  ones,  with  that  confounded 
roguish  eye  and  slippery  tongue,  how  the  deuce  did  it  come  to 
pass  that  you  never  married  ?” 


150 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


“I’ve  been  more  than  once  on  the  verge  of  it;”  said  the 
Adjutant,  smiling  blandly  at  the  flattery. 

“And  nae  bad  notion  yours  just  to  stay  there,”  said  the 
Doctor,  with  a very  peculiar  contortion  of  countenance. 

“No  pleasing  you;  no  contenting  a fellow  like  you,”  said  ' 
Power,  returning  to  the  charge;  “ that’s  the  thing;  you  get  a 
certain  ascendancy;  you  have  a kind  of  success  that  renders  you,| 
as  the  French  say,  tete  montee^  and  you  think  no  woman  rich 
enough,  or  good-looking  enough,  or  high  enough.” 

“ No,  by  Jove,  you’re  wrong,”  said  the  Adjutant,  swallowing 
the  bait,  hook  and  all,  “quite  wrong  there;  for,  somehow,  all 
my  life,  I was  decidedly  susceptible,  not  that  I cared  much  for 
your  blushing  sixteen  or  budding  beauties  in  white  muslin, 
fresh  from  a black-board  and  a governess;  no,  my  taste  inclined 
rather  to  the  more  sober  charms  of  two  or  three-and  thirty,  the 
embonpoint,  a good  foot  and  ankle,  a sensible  breadth  about  the 
shoulders ” 

“ Somewhat  Dutch  like,  I take  it,”  said  the  skipper,  puffing 
out  a volume  of  smoke,  ‘ ‘ a little  bluff  in  the  bows,  and  great 
stowage,  eh  ?” 

“You  leaned,  then,  toward  the  widows,”  said  Power. 

“ Exactly;  I confess,  a widow  always  was  my  weakness. 
There  was  something  I ever  liked  in  the  notion  of  a woman  who 
had  got  over  all  the  awkward  girlishness  of  early  years,  and  had 
that  seK-possession  which  habit  and  knowledge  of  the  world 
confer,  and  knew  enough  of  herself  to  understand  what  she 
really  wished,  and  where  she  would  really  go.” 

“ Like  the  trade  winds,”  puffed  the  skipper. 

“ Then,  as  regards  fortune,  they  have  a decided  superiority 
over  the  spinster  class.  I defy  any  man  breathing — let  him  be 
half  police  magistrate,  half  chancellor — to  find  out  the  figure  of 
a young  lady’s  dower.  On  your  first  introduction  to  the  house, 
some  kind  friend  whispers,  ‘go  it,  old  boy,  forty  thousand;  not 
a penny  loss;’  a few  weeks  later,  as  the  siege  progresses,  a 
maiden  aunt,  disposed  to  puffing,  comes  down  to  twenty;  this 
diminishes  again  one-half,  but  then  ‘ the  money  is  in  bank 
stock,  hard  three-and-a-half.’  You  go  a little  further,  and  as 
you  sit  one  day  over  your  wine  with  papa,  he  suddenly  promul- 
gates the  fact  that  his  daughter  has  five  thousand  pounds,  two 
of  which  turn  out  to  be  in  Mexican  bonds,  and  three  in  an  Irish 
mortgage.” 

“ Happy  for  you,”  interrupted  Power,  “ that  it  be  not  in  Gal- 
way, where  a proposal  to  foreclose  would  be  the  signal  for  your 
being  called  out  and  shot  without  benefit  of  clergy.” 

“Bad  luck  to  it,  for  Galway,”  said  the  Adjutant.  “I  was 
nearly  taken  in  there  once  to  marry  a girl  that  her  brother-in- 
la  w swore  had  eight  hundred  a year,  and  it  came  out  afterward 
that  so  she  had,  but  it  was  for  one  year  only;  and  he  challenged 
me  for  doubting  his  word  too.” 

“There’s  an  old  formula  for  finding  out  an  Irish  fortune,” 
says  Power,  “ worth  all  the  algebra  they  ever  taught  in  Trinity. 
Take  the  half  pf  the  assumed  sum  and  divide  it  by  three,  the 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY,  151 

quotient  will  be  a flattering  representative  of  the  flgure  sought 
for.” 

‘‘Not  in  the  north,”  said  the  Adjutant,  flrmlj;  “not  in  the 
north,  Power;  they  are  all  well  off  there.  There’s  a race  of 
canny,  thrifty,  half  Scotch  niggers— your  pardon.  Doctor— they 
are  all  Irish— linen- weaving,  Presbyterian,  yarn-factoring,  long- 
nosed, . hard-drinking  fellows,  that  lay  by  rather  a snug  thing 
now  and  then.  Do  you  know  I was  very  near  it  once  in  the 
north.  I’ve  half  a mind  to  tell  you  the  story;  though,  perhaps, 
you’ll  laugh  at  me.” 

The  whole  party  at  once  protested  that  nothing  could  induce 
them  to  deviate  so  widely  from  the  line  of  propriety,  and  the 
skipper  having  mixed  a fresh  bowl,  and  filled  all  the  glasses 
round,  the  cigars  were  lighted,  and  the  Adjutant  began; 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  adjutant’s  STOKY — LIFE  IN  DERRY. 

“It  is  now  about  eight,  maybe  ten  years  since,  that  we  were 
ordered  to  march  from  Belfast,  and  take  up  our  quarters  in 
Londonderry.  We  had  not  been  more  than  a few  weeks,  alto- 
gether, in  Ulster,  when  the  order  came;  and,  as  we  had  been, 
for  the  preceding  two  years,  doing  duty  in  the  south  and  west, 
we  concluded  that  the  island  was  tolerably  the  same  in  all  parts. 
We  opened  our  campaign  in  the  maiden  city,  exactly  as  we  had 
been  doing  with  ‘ unparalleled  success’  in  Cashel,  Fermoy,  Tuam, 
&c.,  that  is  to  say,  we  announced  garrison  balls,  and  private 
theatricals;  offered  a cup  to  be  run  for  in  steeplechase;  turned 
out  a four-in-hand  drag,  with  mottled  grays;  and  brought  over 
two  Deal  boats  to  challenge  the  north.” 

“ The  18th  found  the  place  stupid,”  said  we. 

“ To  be  sure  they  did;  slow  fellows,  like  them,  must  find  any 
place  stupid.  No  dinners;  but  they  gave  none.  No  fun;  but 
they  had  none  in  themselves.  In  fact,  we  knew  better;  we  un- 
derstood how  the  thing  was  to  be  done,  and  resolved  that,  as  a 
mine  of  rich  ore  lay  un worked,  it  was  reserved  for  us  to  produce 
the  shining  metal  that  others,  less  discerning,  had  failed  to  dis- 
cover. Little  we  knew  of  the^  matter;  never  was  there  a blun- 
der like  ours.  Were  you  ever  in  Derry?” 

“ Never,”  said  the  listeners. 

“Well  then,  let  me  inform  you,  that  the  place  has  its  own  pe- 
culiar features.  In  the  first  place,  all  the  large  towns  in  the 
south  and  west  have,  besides  the  country  neighborhood  that  sur- 
rounds them,  a certain  sprinkling  of  gentlefolk,  who,  though 
with  small  fortunes  and  not  much  usage  of  the  world,  are  still 
a great  accession  to  society,  and  make  up  the  blank  which, 
even  in  the  most  thickly -peopled  country,  would  be  sadly  felt 
without  them.  Now,  in  Derry,  there  is  none  of  this.  After  the 
great  guns  and— per  Baccho! — what  great  guns  are  they?  you 
have  nothing  but  the  men  engaged  in  commerce;  sharp,  clever, 
shrewd,  well-informed  fellows;  they  are  deep  in  flax-seed,  cun- 
ning in  molasses,  and  not  to  be  excelled  in  all  that  pertains  to 
coffee,  sassafras,  cinnamon,  gum,  oakum,  and  elephants’  teeth. 


159 


CHARLES  a MALLET. 


The  place  is  a rich  one,  and  the  spirit  of  commerce  is  felt  through- 
out it.  .Nothing  is  cared  for,  nothing  is  talked  of,  nothing  allud- 
ed to,  that  does  not  bear  upon  this;  and,  in  fact,  if  you  haven’t  a 
venture  in  Smyrna  figs,  Memel  timber,  Dutch  dolls,  or  some 
such  commodity,  you  are  absolutely  nothing,  and  might  as  well 
be  at  a ball  with  a cork  leg,  or  go  deaf  to  the  opera. 

“ Now,  when  I have  told  you  thus  much,  I leave  you  to  guess 
what  impressions  our  triumphal  entry  into  the  city  produced. 
Instead  of  the  admiring  crowds  that  awaited  us  elsewhtTe,  as 
we  marched  gayly  into  quarters,  here  we  saw  nothing  but  grave, 
sober-looking,  and,  I confess  it,  intelligent-looking  faces,  that 
scrutinized  our  appearance  closely  enough,  but  evidently  with  no 
great  approval,  and  less  enthusiasm.  The  men  passed  on  hurried- 
ly to  the  counting-houses  and  the  wharfs;  the  women  with  al- 
most as  little  interest,  peeped  at  us  from  the  windows,  and  walked 
away  again.  Ohl  how  we  wished  for  Galway;  glorious  Galway! 
that  paradise  of  the  infantry,  that  lies  west  of  the  Shannon. 
Little  we  knew,  as  we  ordered  the  band,  in  lively  anticipation 
of  the  gay eties  before  us,  to  strike  up  ‘Payne’s  first  set,’  that, 
to  the  ears  of  the  fair  listeners  in  Ship  Quay  street,  the  rumble 
of  a sugar  hogshead,  or  the  crank,  crank  of  a weighing  crane, 
were  more  delightful  music.” 

“ By  Jove,”  interrupted  Power,  “ you  are  quite  right.  Women 
are  strongly  imitative  in  their  tastes.  The  lovely  Italian,  whose 
very  costume  is  a natural  following  of  a Raphael,  is  no  more 
like  the  pretty  Liverpool  damsel,  than  Genoa  is  to  Glassnevin; 
and  yet,  what  the  deuce  have  they,  dear  souls,  with  their  feet 
upon  a soft  carpet  and  their  eyes  upon  the  pages  of  Scott  or 
Byron,  to  do  with  all  the  cotton  or  dimity  that  ever  was  print- 
ed. But  let  us  not  repine;  that  very  plastic  character  is  our 
greatest  blessing.  ” 

“ I’m  not  so  sure  that  it  always  exists,”  said  the  Doctor,  dubi- 
ously, as  though  his  own  experience  pointec’'  otherwise. 

“ Well,  go  ahead,”  said  the  Skipper,  who  e idently  disliked  the 
digression  thus  interrupting  the  Adjutant’s  Svbry. 

“ Well,  we  marched  along,  looking  right  and  left  at  the  pretty 
faces — and  there  was  plenty  of  them  too — that  a momentary 
curiosity  drew  to  the  windows;  but,  although  we  smiled,  and 
ogled,  and  leered,  as  only  a newly -arrived  regiment  can  smile, 
ogle,  or  leer,  by  all  that’s  provoking,  we  might  as  well  have 
wasted  our  blandishments  upon  the  Presbyterian  meeting-house 
that  frowned  upon  us,  with  its  high  pitched  roof  and  round 
windows. 

“ ‘ Droll  people  these,’  said  one;  ‘ raythur  rum  ones,’  cried  an- 
other; ‘ the  black  north,  by  Jove,’  said  a third;  and  so  we  went 
along  to  the  barracks,  somewhat  displeased  to  think  that,  though 
the  18th  were  slow,  they  might  have  met  their  match. 

‘ ‘ Disappointed  as  we  undoubtedly  felt,  at  the  little  enthusi- 
asm that  marked  our  entree,  we  still  resolved  to  persist  in  our 
original  plan,  and,  accordingly,  early  the  following  morning 
announced  our  intention  of  giving  amateur  theatricals.  The 
mayor,  who  called  upon  our  Colonel,  was  the  first  to  learn  this, 
^nd  received  the  information  with  pretty  much  the  same  kind 


CHAHLm  omALLEY. 


153 


of  look  as  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  might  be  supposed  to 
assume,  if  requested  by  a friend  to  ride  for  the  Derby,  The  in- 
credulous expression  of  the  poor  man’s  face,  as  he  turned  from 
one  of  us  to  the  other,  evidently  canvassing  in  his  mind  whether 
we  might  not,  by  some  special  dispensation  of  Providence,  be 
all  insane,  I shall  never  forget. 

“ Ilis  visit  was  a very  short  one;  whether  concluding  that  we 
were  not  quite  safe  company,  or  whether  our  notification  was 
too  much  for  his  nerves,  I knov/  not. 

“ We  were  not  to  be  balked,  however;  our  plans  for  gayety, 
long  planned  and  conned  over,  were  soon  announced  in  all  form, 
and,  though  we  made  efforts  almost  superhuman  in  the  cause, 
our  plays  were  performed  to  empty  benches,  our  balls  were  un- 
attended, our  picnic  invitations  politely  declined,  and,  in  a 
word,  all  our  advances  treated  with  a cold  and  chilling  polite- 
ness that  plainly  said,  ‘We’ll  none  of  you.’ 

“ Each  day  brought  some  new  discomfiture,  and,  as  we  met  at 
mess,  instead  of  having,  as  heretofore,  some  prospect  of  pleasure 
and  amusement  to  chat  over,  it  was  only  to  talk  gloomily  over 
our  miserable  failures,  and  lament  the  dreary  quarters  that  our 
fates  had  doomed  us  to. 

“Some  months  wore  on  in  this  fashion,  and  at  length — what 
will  not  time  do  ?—  we  began,  by  degrees,  to  forget  our  woes. 
Some  of  us  took  to  late  hours  and  brandy  and  water;  others  got 
sentimental,  and  wrote  journals,  and  novels,  and  poetry;  some 
few  made  acquaintances  among  the  townspeople,  and  cut  into 
a quiet  rubber  to  pass  the  evening,  while  another  detachment, 
among  which  I was,  got  up  a little  love  affair  to  while  aw^ay  the 
tedious  hours  and  cheat  the  lazy  sun. 

“ I have  already  said  something  of  my  taste  in  beauty;  now, 
Mrs.  Boggs  w^as  exactly  the  style  of  woman  I fancied.  She  was 
a widow;  she  had  black  eyes — not  your  jet  black,  sparkling, 
Dutch-doll  eyes,  that  roll  about  and  tremble,  but  mean  nothing 
— no;  hers  had  a soft,  subdued,  downcast,  pensive  look  about 
them,  and  were  fully  as  melting  a pair  of  orbs  as  any  blue  eyes 
you  ever  looked  at. 

“ Then,  she  had  a short  upper  lip,  and  sweefc  teeth;  by  Jove, 
they  were  pearls!  and  she  showed  them,  too,  pretty  often.  Her 
' figure  was  well  rounded,  plump,  and  what  the  French  call  nette. 
To  complete  all,  her  instep  and  ankle  were  unexceptionable,  and, 
lastly,  her  jointure  was  seven  hundred  pounds  per  annum,  with 
a trifle  of  eight  thousand  more,  that  the  late  lamented  Boggs  be- 
queathed, when,  after  four  months  of  uninterruptable  bliss,  he 
left  Derry  for  another  world. 

“When  chance  first  threw  me  in  the  way  of  the  fair  widow, 
some  casual  coincidence  of  opinion  happened  to  raise  me  in  her 
estimation,  and  I soon  afterward  received  an  invitation  to  a 
small  evening  party  at  her  house,  to  which  I alone  of  the  regi- 
ment was  asked. 

“ I shall  not  weary  you  with  the  details  of  my  intimacy;  it  is 
enough  that  I tell  you  I fell  desperately  in  love.  I began  by 
visiting  twice  or  thrice  a week.  and.  in  less  than  two  months. 


154 


CHAHLES  aUALLF^Y. 


spent  every  morning  at  her  house,  and  rarely  left  it  till  the 
‘ roast  beef  ’ announced  mess. 

“ I soon  discovered  the  widow’s  cue:  she  was  serious.  Now 
I had  conducted  all  manner  of  flirtations  in  my  previous  life; 
timid  young  ladies,  manly  young  ladies,  musical,  artistical,  poet- 
ical, and  hysterical.  Bless  you  I knew  them  all  by  heart;  but 
never  before  had  I to  deal  with  a serious  one,  and  a widow  to 
boot.  The  case  was  a trying  one.  For  some  weeks  it  was  all 
very  up-hill  work;  all  the  red  shot  of  warm  affection  I used  to 
pour  in  on  other  occasions  was  (3f  no  use  here.  The  language 
of  love,  in  which  I was  no  mean  proficient,  availed  me  not. 
Compliments  and  flattery,  those  rare  skirmishers  before  the  en- 
gagement, were  denied  me;  and  I verily  think  that  a tender 
squeeze  of  the  hand  would  have  caused  me  my  dismissal. 

“ ‘ How  very  slow  all  this,’  thought  I,  as,  at  the  end  of  two 
months’  siege,  I still  found  myself  seated  in  the  trenches,  and 
not  a single  breach  in  the  fortress;  but,  to  be  sure,  it’s  the  way 
they  have  in  the  north,  and  one  must  be  patient, 

‘‘  While  thus  I was  in  no  very  sanguine  frame  of  mind  as  to 
my  prospects,  in  reality  my  progress  was  very  considerable, 
having  become  a member  of  Mr.  M’Phun’s  congregation.  I was 
gradually  rising  in  the  estimation  of  the  widou-  and  h€>r  friends, 
whom  my  constant  attendance  at  meeting,  and  my  very  serious 
demeanor,  had  so  far  impressed,  that  very  grave  deliberation 
was  held  whether  I should  not  be  made  an  elder  at  the  next 
brevet. 

“If  the  Widow  Boggs  had  not  been  a very  lovely  and  wealthy 
widow,  had  she  not  possessed  the  eyes,  lips,  hips,  ankles,  and 
jointure  aforesaid,  I honestly  avow  that  not  the  charms  of  that 
sweet  man,  Mr.  M’Phun’s  eloquence,  nor  even  tlie  flattering  dis- 
tinction in  store  for  me,  would  have  induced  me  to  prolong  my 
suit.  However,  1 was  not  going  to  despair  when  in  sight  of 
land.  The  widow  was  evidently  softened;  a little  time  longer, 
and  the  most  scrupulous  moralist,  the  most  rigid  advocate  for 
employing  time  wisely,  could  not  have  objected  to  my  daily  sys- 
tem of  courtship.  It  was  none  of  your  sighing,  dying,  ogling, 
hand- squeezing,  waist-pressing,  oath -swearing,  everlasting-ador- 
ing affairs,  with  an  interchange  of  rings  and  lockets;  not  a bit 
of  it.  It  was  confoundedly  like  a controversial  meeting  at  the 
Eotunda,  and  I myself  had  a far  greater  resemblance  to  Father 
Tom  Maguire  than  a gay  Lothario. 

“ After  all,  when  mess -time  came,  when  the  roast  beef  played, 
and  we  assembled  at  dinner,  and  the  soup  and  fish  had  gone 
round,  with  the  glasses  of  sherry  in,  my  spirits  rallied,  and  a 
very  jolly  evening  consoled  me  for  all  my  fatigues  and  exertions, 
and  supplied  me  with  energy  for  the  morrow;  for,  let  me  ob- 
serve here,  that  I only  made  love  before  dinner.  The  evenings  I 
reserved  for  myself,  assuring  Mrs.  Boggs  that  my  regimental 
duties  required  all  my  time  after  mess  hour,  in  which  I was  per- 
fectly correct;  for  at  six  we  dined;  at  seven  I opened  the  claret 
No.  1;  at  eight  I had  uncorked  ray  second  bottle;  hy  half-past 
eight  I was  returning  to  the  sherry;  and,  at  nine,  punctual  to 
the  moment,  I was  returning  to  my  quarters  on  the  back  of  my 


CHARLES  O^MALLET. 


165 


servant,  Tim  Daly,  who  had  carried  me  safely  for  eight  years, 
without  a single  mistake,  as  the  fox  hunters  say.  This  was  a 
way  we  had  in  the  — th;  every  man  was  carried  away  from 
mess,  some  sooner,  some  later;  I was  always  an  early  riser,  anti 
went  betimes. 

“ Now,  although  I had  very  abundant  proof,  from  circumstan- 
tial evidence,  that  I was  nightly  removed  from  the  mess-room 
to  my  bed  in  the  mode  I mention,  it  would  have  puzzled  me 
sorely  to  prove  the  fact  inany  direct  way;  inasmuch  as,  by  half- 
past nine,  as  the  clock  chimed,  Tim  entered  to  take  me.  I was 
very  innocent  of  all  that  was  going  on,  and,  except  a certain 
vague  sense  of  regret  at  leaving  the  decanter,  felt  nothing  what- 
ever. 

‘‘It  so  chanced — what  mere  trifles  are  we  ruled  by  in  our  dos- 
tiny! — that  just  as  my  suit  with  the  widow  had  assumed  its  most 
favorable  footing,  old  General  Hinks,  that  commanded  tlie  dis- 
trict, announced  his  coming  over  to  inspect  our  regiment.  Over 
he  came  accordingly,  and,  to  be  sure  we  had  a day  of  it.  We 
were  paraded  for  six  mortal  hours;  then  we  were  marching  and 
countermarching;  moving  into  line;  back  again  into  column; 
now  forming  open  column,  then  into  square;  till,  at  last,  we  be- 
gan to  think  that  the  old  General  was  like  the  Flying  Dutchman, 
and  was  probably  condemned  to  keep  on  drilling  us  to  the  day 
of  judgment.  To  be  sure,  he  enlivened  the  proceeding  to  me  by 
pronouncing  the  regiment  the  worst  drilled  and  appointed  corps 
in  the  service,  and  the  adjutant  (me!)  the  stupidest  dunderhead 
— these  were  his  words — he  had  ever  met  with. 

“ ‘ Nevermind,’  thought  I;  ‘ a few  days  more,  and  it’s  little  I’ll 
care  for  the  eighteenth's  maneuvers.  It’s  small  trouble  your  eyes 
right  or  your  left  shoulders  forward  will  give  me.  I’ll  sell  out, 
and  with  the  Widow  Boggs  and  seven  hundred  a year — but  no 
matter.’ 

“ This  confounded  inspection  lasted  till  half -past  five  in  the 
afternoon:  so  that  our  mess  was  delayed  a full  hour  in  conse- 
quence, and  it  was  past  seven  as  we  sat  down  to  dinner.  Our 
faces  were  grim  enough  as  we  met  together  at  first;  but  what 
will  not  a g()od  dinner  and  good  wine  do  for  the  surliest  party? 
By  eight  o’clock  we  began  to  feel  somewhat  more  convivially 
disposed;  and,  before  nine,  the  decanters  were  performing  a 
quick-step  round  the  table,  in  a fashion  very  exhilarating,  and 
very  jovial  to  look  at. 

“ ‘ No  flinching  to-night,’  said  the  senior-major;  ‘ we’ve  had  a 
severe  day;  let  us  also  have  a merry  evening.’ 

“ ‘By  Jove,  Ormond,’  cried  another,  ‘ we  must  not  leave  this 
to-night.  Confound  the  old  humbugs  and  their  musty  whist 
party;  throw  them  over.’ 

“ ‘ Isay,  Adjutant,’  said  Forbes,  addressing  me,  * you’ve  noth- 
ing particular  to  say  to  the  fair  widow  this  evening;  you’ll  not 
bolt,  I hope.’ 

“ ‘That  he  shan’t,  said  one  near  me,  ‘he  must  make  up  for 
his  absence  to-morrow;  for  to-night  we  all  stand  fast.’ 

“ ‘ Besides,’  said  another,  ‘ she’s  at  meeting  by  this.  Old — 
What-d’ye-call  him — is  at  fourteenthly  before  now.’ 


m 


CHARLES  O^MALLET. 


‘“A  note  for  you»  sir,’ said  the  mess- waiter,  presenting  me 
with  a rose  colored,  three-cornered  billet.  It  was  from  la  chere 
Boggs  herself,  and  ran  thus: 

‘ Dear  Sir — Mr.  M’Phun  and  a few  friends  are  coming  to  tea 
at  my  house  after  meeting;  perhaps  you  will  also  favor  us  with 
your  company.  Yours  truly, 

‘“Eliza  Boggs.’ 

“ What  was  to  be  done?  Quit  the  mess — leave  a jolly  party 
just  at  the  j oiliest  moment — exchange  Lafitte  and  red  hermitage 
for  a soiree  of  elders,  presided  over  by  that  sweet  man,  Mr. 
M’Phun.  It  was  too  bad;  but  then,  how  much  was  in  the  scale  ? 
What  would  the  widow  say  if  I declined  ? What  would  she 
think  ? I knew  well  that  the  invitation  meant  nothing  less  than 
a full-dress  parade  of  me  before  her  friends,  and  that  to  decline 
was,  perhaps,  to  forfeit  all  my  hopes  in  that  quarter  forever. 

“ ‘ Any  answer,  sir  ?’  said  the  waiter. 

“ ‘ Yes,’  said  I,  in  a half  whisper,  ‘ I’ll  go;  tell  the  servant  I’ll 
go.’ 

“At  this  moment  my  tender  epistle  was  subtracted  from  be- 
fore me,  and  ere  I turned  round  had  made  the  tour  of  half  the 
table.  I never  perceived  the  circumstance,  however,  and  filling 
my  glass,  professed  my  resolve  to  sit  to  the  last,  with  a mental  re- 
serve to  take  my  departure  at  the  very  first  opportunity.  Ormond 
and  the  Paymaster  quitted  the  room  for  a moment,  as  if  to  give 
orders  for  a broil  at  twelve,  and  now  all  seemed  to  promise  a 
very  convivial  and  well-sustained  party  for  the  night. 

“ ‘ Is  that  all  arranged?’  inquired  the  Major,  as  Ormond  en- 
tered. 

“ ‘ All  right,’  said  he;  ‘and  now  let’s  have  a bumper  and  a 
song.  Adjutant — old  boy,  give  us  a chant.’ 

“ ‘What  shall  it  be,  then?’  inquired  I,  anxious  to  cover  my 
intended  retreat  by  an  appearance  of  joviality. 

“ ‘Give  us: 

“ ‘ When  I was  in  the  fusileers, 

Some  fourteen  years  ago.’ 

“ ‘ No,  no,  confound  it,  I’ve  heard  nothing  else  since  I joined 
the  regiment.  Let  us  have  the  Paymaster’s  Daughter.* 

“ ‘ Ahl  that’s  pathetic;  I like  that,’  lisped  a young  ensign. 

“‘If  I’m  to  have  a vote,’  grunted  out  the  senior-major,  ‘I 
pronounce  for  West  India  Quarters.’ 

“ ‘Yes,  yes,’  said  half  a dozen  voices  together,  ‘let’s  have 
West  India  Quarters.  Come,  give  him  a glass  of  sherry,  and 
let  him  begin.’ 

“ I had  scarcely  finished  off  my  glass  and  cleared  my  throat 
for  my  song,  when  the  clock  on  the  chimney-piece  chimed  half- 
past nine,  and  the  same  instant  I felt  a heavy  hand  fall  up- 
on my  shoulder;  I tunied,  and  beheld  my  servant,  Tim.  This, 
as  I have  already  mentioned,  was  the  hour  at  which  Tim  was  in 
the  habit  of  taking  me  home  to  my  quarters,  and,  though  we 
had  dined  an  hour  later,  lie  took  no  notice  of  the  circumstancej 
but,  true  to  his  custom,  he  was  behind  my  chair.  A very  cur- 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


157 


Bory  glance  at  my  ‘ familiar  ’ was  quite  sufficient  to  show  me 
that  we  had  somehow  changed  sides,  for  Tim,  who  was  habitual- 
ly the  most  sober  of  mankind,  was,  on  the  present  occasion,  ex- 
ceedingly drunk,  while  I,  a full  hour  before  that  consummation 
was  perfectly  sober. 

“‘What  d’ye  want,  sir?’  inquired  I,  with  something  of  se- 
verity in  my  manner. 

“ ‘ Come  home,’  said  Tim,  with  a hiccough  that  set  the  whole 
table  in  a roar. 

“ ‘ Leave  the  room  this  instant,’  said  I,  feeling  wrathy  at  thus 
being  made  a butt  of  for  his  offenses.  ‘ Leave  the  room,  or  I’ll 
kick  you  out  of  it.’  Now  this,  let  me  add,  in  a parenthesis,  was 
Bomewhat  of  a boast,  for  Tim  was  six  feet  three,  and  strong  in 
proportion,  and  when  in  liquor,  fearless  as  a tiger. 

“ ‘ You’ll  kick  me  out  of  the  room,  eh!  will  you?  Try;  only 
try  it;  that’s  all.’  Here  a new  roar  of  laughter  burst  forth, 
while  Tim,  again  placing  an  enormous  paw  upon  my  shoulder, 
continued:  ‘ Don’t  be  sitting  there,  making  a baste  of  yourself, 
when  you’ve  got  enough.  Don’t  you  see  you’re  drunk  ?’ 

“I  sprung  to  my  legs  on  this,  and  made  a rush  to  the  fire- 
place, to  secure  the  poker,  but  Tim  was  beforehand  with  me,  and 
seizing  me  by  the  waist  with  both  hands,  flung  me  across  his 
shoulders,  as  though  I were  a baby,  saying  at  the  same  time: 

‘ I’ll  take  you  away  at  half -past  eight  to-morrow,  av  you’re  as 
rampageous  again.’  I kicked,  I plunged,  I swore,  I threatened, 
I even  begged  and  implored  to  be  set  down;  but,  whether  my 
voice  was  lost  in  the  uproar  around  me,  or  that  Tim  only  re- 
garded my  denunciations  in  the  light  of  cursing,  I know  not, 
but  he  carried  me  bodily  down  the  stairs,  steadying  himself  by 
one  hand  on  the  banisters,  while  with  the  other  he  held  me  as  in 
a vise.  I had  but  one  consolation  all  this  while;  it  was  this, 
that,  as  my  quarters  lay  immediately  behind  the  mess-room, 
Tim’s  excursion  would  soon  come  to  an  end,  and  I should  be 
free  once  more;  but  guess  my  terror  to  And  the  drunken  scoundrel, 
instead  of  going,  as  usual,  to  the  left,  turned  short  to  the  right 
hand,  and  marched  boldly  into  Ship  Quay  street.  Every  win- 
dow in  the  mess-room  was  filled  with  our  fellows,  absolutely 
shouting  with  laughter.  ‘ Go  it,  Tim — that’s  the  fellow — hold 
him  tight — never  let  go,’  cried  a dozen  voices,  while  the  wretch, 
with  the  tenacity  of  drunkenness,  gripped  me  still  harder,  and 
took  his  way  down  the  middle  of  the  street. 

“It  was  a beautiful  evening  in  July,  a soft  summer  night,  as 
I made  this  pleasing  excursion  down  the  most  frequented 
thoroughfare  in  the  maiden  city;  my  struggles  every  moment 
exciting  roars  of  laughter  from  an  increasing  crowd  of  specta- 
tors, who  seemed  scarcely  less  amused  than  puzzled  at  the  ex- 
hibition. In  the  midst  of  a torrent  of  imprecations  against  my 
torturer,  a loud  noise  attracted  me.  I turned  my  head  and  saw 
— horror  of  horrors! — the  door  of  the  meeting-house  just  flung 
open,  and  the  congregation  issuing  en  masse.  Is  it  any  wonder 
if  I remember  no  more?  There  I was,  the  chosen  one  of  the 
Widow  Boggs — the  elder  elect — the  favored  friend  and  admired 
lissociate  of  Mr.  M’Phun,  taking  an  airing  on  a summer’^  ^ven- 


158 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


ing  on  the  back  of  a drunken  Irishman  I Oh!  the  thought  was 
horrible,  and,  certainly,  the  short  and  pithy  epithets  by  which  I 
was  characterized  in  the  crowd  neither  improved  my  temper  nor 
assuaged  my  wrath;  and  I feel  bound  to  confess  that  my  own 
language  was  neither  serious  nor  becoming.  Tim,  however, 
cared  little  for  all  this,  and  pursued  the  even  tenor  of  his  way 
through  the  whole  crowd,  nor  stopped  till,  having  made  half  the 
circuit  of  the  wall,  he  deposited  me  safe  at  my  own  door, 
adding  as  he  set  me  down,  ‘ Oh  I av  you’re  as  throublesome 
every  evening,  it’s  a wheelbarrow  I’ll  be  obleeged  to  bring  for 
you.’ 

“ The  next  day  I obtained  a short  leave  of  absence,  and.  ere  a 
fortnight  expired,  exchanged  into  the  — th,  preferring  Halifax 
itself  to  the  ridicule  that  awaited  me  in  Londonderry. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

FRED  power’s  ADVENTURE  IN  PHILIPSTOWN. 

The  lazy  hours  of  the  long  summer  day  crept  slowly  over. 
The  sea,  unbroken  by  foam  or  ripple,  shone  like  a broad  blue 
mirror,  reflecting  here  and  there  some  fleecy  patches  of  snow- 
white  cloud  as  they  stood  unmoved  in  the  sky.  The  good  ship 
rocked  to  and  fro  with  a heavy  and  lumbering  motion;  the 
cordage  rattled;  the  bulkheads  creaked;  the  sails  flapped  lazily 
against  the  masts;  the  very  sea-gulls  seemed  to  sleep  as  they 
rested  on  the  long  swell  that  bore  them  along;  and  everything 
in  sea  and  sky  bespoke  a calm.  No  sailor  trod  the  deck;  no 
watch  was  stirring;  the  very  tiller- ropes  were  deserted;  and,  as 
they  traversed  back  and  forward  with  every  roll  of  the  vessel, 
told  that  we  had  no  steerage-way,  and  lay  a mere  log  upon  the 
water. 

I sat  alone  in  the  bow,  and  fell  into  a musing  fit  upon  the  past 
and  the  future.  How  happily  for  us  is  it  ordained  that,  in  the 
most  stirring  existences,  there  are  every  here  and  there  such  lit- 
tle resting-spots  of  reflection,  from  which,  as  from  some  emi- 
nence, we  look  back  upon  the  road  we  have  been  treading  in  life, 
and  cast  a wistful  glance  at  the  dark  vista  before  us.  When  first 
we  set  out  upon  our  worldly  pilgrimage,  those  are,  indeed,  pre- 
icious  moments,  when,  with  buoyant  heart  and  spirit  high,  believ- 
^ing  all  things,  trusting  all  things,  our  very  youth  comes  back  to 
us,  reflected  from  every  object  we  meet;  and,  like  Narcissus,  we 
are  but  worshiping  our  own  image  in  the  water.  As  we  go  on 
in  life,  the  cares,  the  anxieties,  and  the  business  of  the  world 
engross  us  more  and  more;  and  such  moments  become  fewer 
and  shorter.  Many  a bright  dream  has  been  dissolved,  and 
many  a fair  vision  replaced,  by  some  dark  reality;  blighted 
hopes,  false  friendships  have  gradually  worn  callous  the  heart 
once  alive  to  every  gentle  feeling;  and  time  begins  to  tell  upon 
us;  yet  still,  as  the  well-remembered  melody  to  which  we  list- 
ened with  delight  in  infancy  brings  to  our  mature  age  a touch 
of  early  years,  so  will  the  very  association  of  these  happy  mo- 
ments recuT  to  us  in  our  reverie,  and  make  us  young  again  in 
thought.  Then  it  is  that,  as  we  look  back  upon  our  worldly 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY, 


159 


reer,  we  become  convinced  how  truly  is  the  child  the  father  of 
the  man;  how  frequently  are  the  projects  of  our  manhood  the 
fruit  of  some  boyish  predilection;  and  that,  in  the  emulative  ardor 
that  stirs  the  schoolboy’s  heart,  we  may  read  the  prestige  of  that 
high  daring  that  makes  a hero  of  its  possessor. 

These  moments,  too,  are  scarcely  more  pleasurable  than  they 
are  salutary  to  us.  Disengaged  for  the  time  of  every  worldly 
anxiety,  we  pass  in  review  before  our  own  selves;  and  in  the 
solitude  of  our  own  hearts  are  w^e  judged.  That  still,  small 
voice  of  conscience,  unheard  and  unlistened  to  amid  the  din  and 
bustle  of  life,  speaks  audi'dy  to  us  now;  and,  while  chastened 
on  one  side  by  regrets,  we  are  sustained  on  the  other  by  some  ap- 
proving thought,  and,  with  many  a sorrow  for  the  past,  and 
many  a promise  for  the  future,  we  begin  to  feel  ‘‘  how  good  it  is 
for  us  to  be  here.  ” 

The  evening  wore  lacer;  the  red  sun  sank  down  upon  the  sea, 
growing  larger  and  larger;  the  long  line  of  mellow  gold  that 
sheeted  along  the  distant  hofizon,  grew  first  of  a dark  ruddy 
tinge,  then  paler  and  paler  till  it  became  almost  gray;  a single 
star  shone  faintly  in  the  east,  and  darkness  soon  set  in.  With 
night  came  the  wind;  for  almost  imperceptibly  the  sails 
swelled  slowly  out,  a slight  rustle  at  the  bow  followed,  the  ship  lay 
gently  over,  and  we  were  once  more  in  motion.  It  struck  four 
bells;  some  casual  resemblance  in  the  sound  to  the  old  pendulum 
that  marked  the  hour  in  my  uncle’s  house,  startled  me  so  that  I 
actually  knew  not  where  I was.  With  lightning  speed  my  once 
home  rose  up  before  me  with  its  happy  hearts;  the  old  familiar 
faces  were  there;  the  gay  laugh  was  in  my  ears;  there  sat  my 
dear  old  uncle,  as  with  bright  eye  and  mellow  voice  he  looked 
a very  welcome  to  his  guest;  thi3re  Boyle;  there  Considine; 
there  the  grim-visaged  portraits  that  graced  the  old  walls,  whose 
black  oak  wrainscot  stood  in  broad  light  and  shadow,  as  the 
blazing  turf  fire  shone  upon  it;  there  was  my  own  place,  now 
vacant;  methought  my  uncle’s  eye  was  turned  toward  it,  and 
that  I heard  him  say;  “ My  poor  boy!  I wonder  where  he  is 
now!”  My  heart  swelled;  my  chest  heaved;  the  tears  coursed 
slowly  down  my  cheeks,  as  I asked  myself:  “ Shall  I ever  see 
them  more?”  Oh!  how  little,  how  very  little  to  us  are  the 
accustomed  blessings  of  our  life,  till  some  change  has  robbed  us 
of  them;  and  how  dear  are  they  when  lost  to  us!  My  uncle’s 
dark  foreboding  that  we  should  never  meet  again  on  earth,  came, 
for  the  first  time,  forcibly  to  my  mind,  and  my  heart  w^as  full 
to  bursting.  What  could  repay  me  for  the  agony  of  that  mo- 
ment, as  I thought  of  him — my  first,. my  best,  my  only  friend — 
whom  I had  deserted;  and  how  gladly  would  I have  resigned 
my  bright  day-dawn  of  ambition  to  be  once  more  beside  his 
chair;  to  hear  his  voice;  to  see  him  smile;  to  feel  his  love 
for  me.  A loud  laugh  from  the  cabin  roused  me  from  my  sad 
depressing  reverie;  and  at  the  same  instant,  Mike’s  well-kjiown 
voice  informed  me  that  the  Captain  was  looking  for  me  every- 
where, as  supper  was  on  the  table.  Little  as  I felt  disposed  to 
join  the  party  at  such  a moment,  as  I knew  there  was  no  es^ 
caping  Power,  I resolved  t«  make  the  best  of  matters;  so,  after 


160  CHARLES  aMALLEY. 

a few  minutes,  I followed  Mickey  down  the  companion  and 
entered  the  cabin. 

The  scene  before  me  was  certainly  not  calculated  to  perpetu- 
ate depressing  thoughts.  At  the  head  of  a rude,  old-fashioned 
table,  upon  which  figured  several  black  bottles,  and  various  ill- 
looking  drinking  vessels  of  every  shape  and  material,  sat  Fred 
-Power;  on  his  right  was  placed  the  Skipper;  on  his  left  the 
Doctor;  the  bronzed,  merry- looking,  weather-beaten  features  of 
the  one  contrasting  ludicrously  with  the  pale,  ascetic,  acute- 
looking expression  of  the  other.  Sparks,  more  than  half  drunk, 
with  the  mark  of  a red-hot  cigar  upon  his  nether  lip,  was  lower 
down;  while  Major  Monsoon,  to  preserve  the  symmetry  of  the 
party,  had  protruded  his  head,  surmounted  by  a huge  red  night- 
cap, from  the  berth  opposite,  and  held  out  his  goblet  to  be  re- 
plenished from  the  punch-bowl. 

“ Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  thou  man  of  Galway!”  cried  out 
Power,  as  he  pointed  to  a seat,  and  pushed  a wine-glass  toward 
me.  ‘‘Just  in  time,  too,  to  pronounce  upon  a new^  bre^wery; 
taste  that,  a little  more  of  the  lemon,  you  w^ould  say,  perhaps; 
well,  I agree  with  you;  rum  and  brandy;  Glenlivat  and  guava 
jelly;  limes,  green  tea,  and  a slight  suspicion  of  preserved  ginger 
— nothing  else,  upon  honor — and  the  most  simple  mixture  for 
the  cure,  the  radical  cure,  of  blue  devils  and  debt  I know  of;  eh. 
Doctor  ? you  advise  it  yourself,  to  be  taken  before  bed-time; 
nothing  inflammatory  in  it;  nothing  pugnacious;  a mere  circula- 
tion of  the  better  juices  and  more  genial  spirits  of  the  marly 
clay,  without  arousing  any  of  the  baser  passions;  whisky  is  the 
devii  for  that.” 

“ I canna  say  that  I dinna  like  whisky  toddy,”  said  the  Doctor; 
“in  the  cauld Vinter  nights  it's  no  sae  bad.” 

“Ah!  that’s  it,”  said  Power;  “there’s  the  pull  you  Scotch 
have  upon  us  poor  Patlanders;  cool,  calculating,  long-headed 
fellows,  you  only  come  up  to  the  mark  after  fifteen  tumblers; 
whereas,  we  hot-brained  devils,  with  a blood  at  212o  of  Fahren- 
heit, and  a high-pressure  engine  of  good  spirits  always  ready  for 
an  explosion,  we  go  clean  mad  when  tipsy;  not  but  I am  fully 
convinced  that  a mad  Irishman  is  worth  two  sane  people  of  any 
other  country  under  heaven.” 

“ If  you  mean  by  that  in  sin — insin — avation  to  imply  any  dis- 
respect to  the  English,”  stuttered  out  Sparks.  “ I am  bound  to 
say  that  I,  for  one,  and  the  Doctor,  I am  sure,  for  another ” 

“ ISa,  na,”  interrupted  the  Doctor,  “ ye  manna  coont  upon  me; 
I’m  no  disposed  to  fetch  over  our  liquor.” 

“Then,  Major  Monsoon,  I’m  certain ” 

“Are  ye?  faith,”  said  the  Major  with  a grin:  “blessed  are 
they  who  expect  nothing — of  w^hich  number  you  are  not — for 
most  decidedly  you  shall  be  disappointed.” 

“ Never  mind.  Sparks,  take  the  whole  fight  to  your  own 
proper  self,  and  do  battle  like  a man;  and  here  I stand,  ready  at 
all  arms  to  prove  my  position — that  we  drink  better,  sing  t^etter, 
court  better,  fight  better,  make  better  punch,  than  every  John 
Bull  from  Berwick  to  the  Land’s  End.” 


CHABLES  a M ALLEY. 


m 


Sparks-  however,  who  seemed  not  exactly  sure  how  far  his  an- 
tagonist was  disposed  to  quiz,  relapsed  into  a half-tipsy  expres- 
sion of  contemptuous  silence,  and  sipped  his  liquor  without  re- 
ply. 

*“  Yes,”  said  Power,  after  a pause,  “ bad  luck  to  it  for  whisky; 
it  nearly  got  me  broke  once,  and  poor  Tom  O’Reilly  of  the  5th, 
too,  the  best  tempered  fellow  in  the  service;  we  were  as  near  it 
as  touch  and  go;  and  all  for  some  confounded  Loughrea  spirits, 
that  we  believed  to  be  perfectly  innocent,  and  used  toswill  away 
freely,  without  suspicion  of  any  kind.” 

“ Let’s  hear  the  story,”  said  T,  by  ail  means.” 

“ It’s  not  a long  one,”  said  Power,  ‘‘so  I don’t  care  if  I tell  it; 
and  besides,  if  I make  a clean  breast  of  my  own  sins,  ITl  insist 
upon  Monsoon  telling  you  afterward  how  he  stocked  his  cellar 
in  Cadiz;  eh.  Major!  there’s  worse  tipple  than  the  King  of  Spain’s 
sherry!” 

“ You  shall  judge  for  yourself,  old  boy,”  said  Monsoon,  good- 
humoredly;  “ and  as  for  the  narrative,  it  is  equally  at  your 
service.  Of  course,  it  goes  no  further.  The  Commander-in- 
Chief,  long  life  to  him,  is  a glorious  fellow;  but  he  has  no  more 
idea  of  a joke  than  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  it  might 
chance  to  reach  him.” 

“Recount  and  fear  not,”  cried  Power;  “ we  are  discreet  as  the 
worshipful  company  of  apothecaries.” 

“ But  you  forget  you  are  to  lead  the  way.” 

“ Here  goes  then,”  said  the  jolly  Captain;  “ not  that  the  story 
has  any  merit  in  it,  but  the  moral  is  beautiful. 

“Ireland,  to  be  sure,  is  a beautiful  country,  but  somehow  it 
would  prove  a very  dull  one  to  be  quartered  in,  if  it  were  not 
that  the  people  seem  to  have  a natural  taste  for  the  army.  From 
the  belle  of  Merrion  square  down  to  the  inn-keeper’s  daughter  in 
Tralee,  the  loveliest  part  of  the  creation  seem  to  have  a perfect 
appreciation  of  our  high  acquirements  and  advantages,  and  in 
no  other  part  of  the  globe,  the  Tonga  Islands  included,  is  a red 
coat  more  in  favor.  To  be  sure,  they  would  be  very  ungrateful 
if  it  were  not  the  case;  for  we,  upon  our  sides,  leave  no  stone 
unturned  to  make  ourselves  agreeable.  We  ride,  drink,  play, 
and  make  love  to  the  ladies,  from  Fairhead  to  Killarney,  in  a 
way  greatly  calculated  to  render  us  popular;  and,  as  far  as  mak- 
ing the  time  pass  pleasantly,  we  are  the  boys  for  the  ‘ greatest 
happiness’  principle.  I repeat  it:  we  deserve  our  popularity. 
Which  of  us  does  not  get  head  and  ears  in  debt  with  garrison 
balls  and  steeple-chases,  pic-nics,  regattas,  and  a thousand  and 
one  inventions  to  get  rid  of  one’s  spare  cash,  so  called  for  being 
so  sparingly  dealt  out  by  our  governors  ? Now  and  then,  too, 
when  all  else  fails,  we  take  a newly-joined  ensign,  and  make 
him  marry  some  pretty  but  penniless  lass,  in  a country  town, 
just  to  show  the  rest  that  we  are  not  joking,  but  have  serious 
ideas  of  matrimony,  in  the  midst  of  all  our  flirtation.  If  it  were 
all  like  this,  the  green  isle  would  be  a paradise;  but,  unluckily, 
every  now  and  then,  one  is  condemned  to  some  infernal  place, 
where  there  is  neither  a pretty  face  nor  light  ankle;  where  the 
priest  himself  is  not  a good  fellow;  and  long,  ill-paved,  strag- 


162 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


gling  streets,  filled  on  market  days,  with  booths  of  striped  calico 
and  soapy  cheese  is  the  only  promenade;  and  a ruinous  barrack, 
with  moldy  walls  and  a tumbling  chimney,  the  only  quarters. 

‘‘  In  vain,  on  your  return  from  your  morning  stroll  or  after- 
noon canter,  you  look  on  the  chimney-piece  for  a shower  of  vis- 
iting cards,  and  pink  notes  of  invitation;  in  vain  you  ask  your 
servant  has  any  one* called.  Alas!  your  only  visitor  has  been  the 
gauger,  to  demand  a party  to  assist  in  still -hunting,  amid  that 
interesting  class  of  the  population,  who,  having  -nothing  to  eat, 
are  engaged  in  devising  drink,  and  care  as  much  for  the  life  of  a 
red-coat  as  you  do  for  that  of  a crow  or  a curlew.  This  may 
seem  overdrawn;  but  I would  ask  you,  were  you  ever  for  your 
sins  quartered  in  that  capital  city  of  the  Bog  of  Allen  they  call 
Philipstown  ? Oh,  but  it  is  a romantic  spot!  They  tell  us  some- 
where that  much  of  the  expression  of  the  human  face  divine 
depends  upon  the  objects  which  constantly  surround  us.  Thus 
the  inhabitants  of  mountain  districts  imbibe,  as  it  were,  a cer- 
tain bold  and  daring  character  of  expression  from  the  scenery, 
very  different  from  the  placid  and  monotonous  look  of  those  who 
dwell  in  plains  and  valleys;  and  I can  certainly  credit  the  theory 
in  this  instance,  for  every  man,  woman,  and  child  you  meet  has 
a brown  baked,  scruffy,  turf-like  face,  that  fully  satisfy  you 
that,  if  Adam  were  formed  of  clay,  the  Philipstown  people  were 
worse  treated,  and  only  made  of  bog  mold. 

“ Well,  one  fine  morning,  poor  Tom  and  myself  were  marched 
off  from  Birr,  where  one  might  ‘ live  and  love  forever,’  to  take 
up  our  quarters  at  this  sweet  spot.  Little  we  knew  of  Philips- 
town,  and,  like  my  friend,  the  adjutant  there,  when  he  laid  siege 
to  Derry,  we  made  our  (intree  with  all  the  pomp  we  could  mus- 
ter, and  though  we  had  no  band,  our  drums  and  fifes  did  duty 
for  it;  and  we  brushed  along  through  turf  creels  and  wicker 
baskets  of  new  brogues  that  obstructed  the  street  till  we  reached 
the  barrack,  the  only  testimony  of  admiration  we  met  with  being, 
I feel  bound  to  admit,  from  a ragged  urchin  of  ten  years,  who, 
with  a wattle  in  his  hand,  imitated  me  as  I marched  along,  and, 
when  I cried  halt,  took  his  leave  of  us  by  dexterously  affixing  his 
thumb  to  the  side  of  his  nose,  and  outstretching  his  fingers,  as  if 
thus  to  convey  a very  strong  hint  that  we  were  not  half  so  fine  fel- 
lows as  we  thought  ourselves.  Well,  four  mortal  summer 
months  of  hot  sun  and  cloudless  sky  went  over,  and  still  we  lin- 
gered in  that  vile  village,  the  everlasting  monotony  of  our  days 
being  marked  by  the  same  brief  morning  drill,  the  same  blue- 
legged chicken  dinner,  the  same  smoky  Loughrea  whisky,  and 
the  same  evening  stroll  along  the  canal  bank,  to  watch  for  the 
Dublin  packet- boat,  with  its  never- varying  cargo  of  cattle- 
dealers,  priests,  and  peelers,  on  their  way  to  the  west  (country, 
as  though  the  demand  for  such  colonial  productions  in  these 
parts  was  insatiable.  This  was  pleasant,  you  will  say;  but  what 
was  to  be  done  ? we  bad  nothing  else.  Now  nothing  saps  a man’s 
temper  like  ennui.  The  cranky,  peevish  people  one  meets  with 
would  be  excellent  folk  if  they  only  had  something  to  do.  As 
for  us,  I’ll  venture  to  say,  two  men  more  disposed  to  go  pleas- 
antly down  the  current  of  life  it  were  hard  to  meet  with;  and 


CHARLES  OHALLEY, 


168 


yet,  such  was  the  consequence  of  these  confounded  four  months’ 
sequestration  from  all  other  society,  we  became  sour  and  cross- 
grained;  everlastingly  disputing  about  trifles,  and  continually 
arguing  about  matters  which  neither  were  interested  in,  nor, 
indeed,  knew  anything  about.  There  ^vere,  indeed,  it  is  true, 
few  topics  to  discuss — newspapers  w^e  never  saw;  sporting  there 
was  none;  but,  then,  the  drill,  the  return  of  duty,  the  probable 
chances  of  our  being  ordered  for  service,  were  all  daily  subjects 
to  be  talked  over,  and  usually  with  considerable  asperity  and 
bitterness.  One  point,  however,  always  served  us,  when  hard 
pushed  for  a bone  of  contention,  and  which,  begun  by  a mere 
accident  at  first,  gradually  increased  to  a sore  and  techy  subject, 
and  finally  led  to  the  consequences  which  I have  hinted  at  in 
the  beginning — this  was  no  less  than  the  respective  merits  of  our 
mutual  servants;  each  everlastingly  indulging  in  a tirade  against 
the  other,  for  awkwardness,  incivility,,  unhandiness.  Charges,  I 
am  bound  to  confess,  most  amply  proved  on  either  side. 

‘‘  ‘ Well,  I am  sure,  O'Reilly,  if  you  can  stand  that  fellow,  it’s 
no  affair  of  mine;  but  such  an  ungainl}^  savage  I never  met,’  I 
would  say. 

“ To  which  he  would  reply:  ^ Bad  enough  he  is,  certainly;  but, 
by  Jove!  when  I only  think  of  your  Hottentot,  I feel  grateful 
for  what  I’ve  got.  ’ 

‘‘Then  ensued  a discussion,  with  attack,  rejoinder,  charge  and 
recrimination,  till  we  retired  for  the  night,  wearied  with  our 
exertions,  and  not  a little  ashamed  of  ourselves,  at  bottom,  for 
our  absurd  warmth  and  excitement.  In  the  morning  the  matter 
would  be  rigidly  avoided  by  each  party,  until  some  chance  occa- 
sion had  brought  it  on  the  tapis,  when  hostilities  would  be 
immediately  renewed,  and  carried  on  with  the  same  vigor,  to 
end  as  before. 

“In  this  agreeable  state  of  matters  we  sat,  one  warm  summer 
evening  before  the  mess-room,  under  the  shade  of  a canvas  awn- 
ing, discussing,  by  way  of  refrigerant,  our  eighth  tumbler  of 
whisky  punch.  We  had,  as  usual,  been  jarring  away  about 
everything  uuder  heaven.  A lately-arrived  post-chaise,  with  an 
old,  stiff-looking  gentleman,  in  a queue,  had  formed  a kind  of 
‘ Godsend ' for  debate,  as  to  who  he  was,  whither  he  was  going, 
whether  he  really  had  intended  to  spend  the  night  there,  or  that 
he  only  put  up  because  the  chaise  was  broken;  each,  as  was 
customary,  maintaining  his  own  opinion  with  an  obstinacy  we 
have  often  since  laughed  at,  though,  at  the  time,  we  had  few 
mirthful  thoughts  about  the  matter. 

“As  the  debate  waxed  warm,  O'Reilly  asserting  that  he  pos- 
itively knew  the  individual  in  question  to  be  a United  Irishman, 
traveling  with  instructions  from  the  French  govern  ment,  while 
I laughed  liim  to  scorn,  by  swearing  th^t  he  was  the  rector  of 
Tyrrell’s  pass;  that  I knew  him  well;  and,  moreover,  that  he  was 
the  worst  preacher  in  Ireland.  Singular  enough  it  was  that  all 
this  while  the  disputed  identity  was  himself  standing  coolly  at 
the  inn  window,  with  his  snuff-box  in  his  hand,  leisurely  exam- 
ining us  as  we  sat,  appearing,  at  least,  to  take  a very  lively 
interest  in  our  debate 


m 


CHABLES  aMALLEY. 


‘“Come,  now,' said  O’Reilly,  ‘there’s  only  one  way  to  con- 
clude this,  and  make  you  pay  for  your  obstinacy . What  will  you 
bet  that  he’s  the  rector  of  Tyrrell’s-pass  ?’ 

“ ‘What  odds  will  you  take  that  he’s  Wolfe  Tone?”  inquired 
I,  sneeringly. 

“ * Five  to  one  against  the  rector  ’ said  he  exultingly. 

“ ‘ An  elephant’s  molar  to  a tooth-pick  against  Wolfe  Tone!’ 
cried  I. 

“ ‘ Ten  pound  even  that  I’m  nearer  the  mark  than  you,’  said 
Tom,  with  a smash  of  his  fist  upon  the  table. 

“ ‘ Done,’  said  I,  ‘ done;  but  how  are  we  to  decide  the  wager?’ 

“ ‘ That’s  soon  done  ,’  said  he:  at  the  same  instant  he  sprung 
to  his  legs  and  called  out:  ‘Pat — I say,  Pat — I want  you  to  pre- 
sent my  respects  to ’ 

“ * No,  no,  I bar  that — no  ex-parte  statements.  Here,  Jem,  do 
you  simply  tell  that ’ . 

“ ‘ That  fellow  can’t  deliver  a message.  Do  come  here,  Pat. 
Just  beg  of ’ 

“ ‘He'll  blunder  it,  the  confounded  fool;  so,  Jem,  do  you  go.’- 

“ The  two  individuals  thus  addressed  were  just  in  the  act  of 
conveying  a tray  of  glasses  and  a spiced  round  of  beef  for  sup- 
per into  the  mess-room;  and  as  I may  remark  that  they  fully 
entered  into  the  feelings  of  jealousy  their  respective  masters 
professed,  each  eyed  the  other  with  a look  of  very  unequivocal 
dislike. 

“ ‘ Arrah,  you  needn’t  be  pushing  me  that  way,’  said  Pat,  ‘an’ 
the  round  of  beef  in  my  hand.’ 

“ ‘Devil’s  luck  to  ye,  it’s  the  glasses  you’ll  be  breaking,  with 
your  awkward  elbow.’ 

“ ‘ Then  why  don't  ye  leave  the  way;  ain’t  I your  suparior  ?’ 

“ ‘ Ain’t  I the  captain’s  own  man?’ 

“ ‘ Ay,  and  if  you  war.  Don't  I belong  to  his  betters?  Isn’t 
my  master  the  two  liftenants  ?’ 

“ This,  strange  as  it  may  sound,  was  so  far  true,  as  I held  a 
commission  in  an  African  corps,  with  my  lieutenantcy  in  the 
5th. 

“ ‘ Begorra,  av  he  was  six — there,  now,  you.  don’  it.’ 

“ At  the  same  moment  a tremendous  crash  took  place,  and  the 
large  dish  fell  into  a thousand  pieces  on  the  pavement,  while  the 
spiced  round  rolled  pensively  down  the  yard. 

“ Scarcely  was  the  noise  heard  when,  with  one  vigorous  kick, 
the  tray  of  glasses  was  sent  spinning  into  the  air,  and  the  next 
moment  t he  disputants  were  engaged  in  bloody  battle.  It  was 
at  this  moment  that  our  attention  was  first  drawn  toward  them, 
and  I need  not  say  with  what  feelings  of  interest  we  looke^d  on. 

“ ‘Hit  him,  Pat — there,  Jem,  under  the  guard — that’s  it — go 
in — well  done,  left  li^nd — by  Jove,  that  was  a facer — his  eye’s 
closed — he’s  done — not  a bit  of  it — how  do  you  like  that? — unfair, 
unfair — no  such  thing — I say  it  was— not  at  all — I deny  it.’ 

“ By  this  time  we  had  approached  the  combatants,  each  man 
patting  his  own  fellow  on  the  back,  and  encouraging  him  by  the 
most  lavish  promises.  Now  it  was,  but  in  what  way  I never 
could  exactly  tell,  that  I threw  out  my  right  hand  to  stop  a blow 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


165 


that  I saw  coining  rather  too  near  me,  when,  by  some  unhappy 
mischance  my  doubled  fist  lighted  upon  Tom  O’Reilly’s  nose.  Be- 
fore I could  express  my  sincere  regret  for  the  accident,  the  blow 
was  returned  with  double  force,  and  the  next  moment  we  were 
at  it  harder  than  the  others.  After  five  minutes’  sharp  work, 
we  both  stopped  for  breath,  and  incontinently  burst  out  a laugh- 
ing. There  was  Tom  with  a nose  as  large  as  three;  a huge  cheek 
on  one  side  and  the  whole  head  swinging  around  like  a harle- 
quin’s; while  I,  with  one  eye  closed  and  the  other  like  a half- 
shut cockle-shell,  looked  scarcely  less  rueful.  We  had  not  much 
time  for  mirth,  for  at  the  same  instant  a sharp,  full  voice  called 
out  close  beside  us; 

“ ‘To  your  quarters,  sirs.  I put  you  both  under  arrest,  from 
wdiich  you  are  not  to  be  released  until  the  sentence  of  a court- 
martial  decide  if  conduct  such  as  this  become  officers  and  gen- 
tlemen.’ 

“ I looked  round  and  saw  the  old  fellow  in  the  queue. 

“ ‘ Wolf  Tone,  by  all  that’s  unlucky,’  said  I,  with  an  attemjit 
at  a smile. 

“ ‘ The  rector  of  Tyrrell’s  pass,’  cried  out  Tom,  with  a sniffle, 

‘ the  worst  preacher  in  Ireland;  eh,  Fred  ?’ 

“We  had  not  much  time  for  further  commentaries  upon  our 
friend,  for  he  at  once  opened  his  frock-coat,  and  displayed  to 
our  horrified  gaze  the  uniform  of  a general  officer. 

“ ‘ Yes,  sir.  General  Johnston,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  present 
him  to  your  acquaintance;  and  now,  guards,  turn  out.’ 

“ In  a few  minutes  more  the  orders  were  issued,  and  poor  Tom 
and  myself  found  ourselves  fast  confined  to  our  quarters,  with 
a sentinel  at  the  door,  and  the  pleasant  prospect  that,  in  a space 
of  about  ten  days,  we  should  be  broke  and  dismissed  the  service; 
which  verdict,  as  the  general  order  would  say,  the  Commander 
of  the  Forces  has  been  graciously  pleased  to  approve. 

“However,  when  morning  came,  the  old  General,  who  was 
really  a trump,  inquired  a little  further  into  the  matter,  saw  it 
was  partly  accidental,  and,  after  a severe  reprimand,  and  a cau- 
tion about  Loughrea  whisky  after  the  sixth  tumbler,  released  uf 
from  arrest,  and  forgave  the  whole  affair.” 


CHAPTER  XXXTo 

THE  VOYAGE. 

Ugh!  what  a miserable  thing  is  a voyage!  Here  we  are  now 
eight  days  at  sea;  the  eternal  sameness  of  all  around  growing 
every  hour  less  supportable.  Sea  and  sky  are  beautiful  things 
when  seen  from  the  dark  woods  and  waving  meadows  on  shore; 
but  their  picturesque  effect  is  sadly  marred  from  want  of  con- 
trast; besides  that,  the  “ foit/o2t?’spork,”  with  crystals  of  salt  as 
long  as  your  wife’s  fingers;  the  potatoes,  that  seemed  varnished 
in  French  polish;  the  tea,  seasoned  with  geological  sptjcimens 
from  the  basin  of  London,  ycleped  maple  sugar;  and  the  butter 
— ye  gods! — the  butter!  But  why  enumerate  these  smaller  feat* 
ures  of  discomfort,  and  omit  the  more  glaring  ones?  The  utter 
selfishness  which  blue  water  suggests,  is  inevitable  as  the  cold 


166 


CHARLES  CM  ALLEY. 


fit  follows  the  ague;  the  good  fellow  that  shares  his  knapsack  or 
his  last  guinea  on  land,  here  forages  out  the  best  corner  to  hang 
his  hammock;  jockeys  you  into  a comfortless  crib,  where  the 
uncaulked  deck  but  filters  every  rain  from  heaven  on  your  head; 
he  votes  you  the  corner  at  dinner,  not  only  that  he  may  place 
you  with  your  back  to  the  thorough  draught  of  the  gangway  lad- 
der, but  that  he  may  eat,  drink,  and  lie  down,  before  you  have 
even  begun  to  feel  the  qualmishness  that  the  dinner  of  a troop 
ship  is  well  calculated  to  suggest;  cuts  his  pencil  with  your  best 
razor;  wears  your  shirts,  as  washing  is  scarce;  and  winds  up 
all  by  having  a good  story  of  you  every  evening  for  the  edifica- 
tion of  the  other  “sharp  gentlemen,”  who,  being  too  wide  awake 
to  be  humbugged  tliemseh^es,  enjoy  his  success  prodigiously. 
This,  gentle  reader,  is  neither  confession  nor  avowal  of  mine. 
The  passage  I have  here  presented  to  you  I have  taken  from  the 
journal  of  my  brother  officer,  Mr.  Sparks,  who,  when  not  other- 
wise occupied,  usually  employed  his  time  in  committing  to  paper 
his  thoughts  upon  men,  manners,  and  things  at  sea  in  general; 
though,  sooth  to  say,  his  was  not  an  idle  life;  being  voted  by 
unanimous  consent  “a  junior,”  he  was  condemned  to  offices 
that  the  veriest  fag  in  Eton  or  Harrow  had  rebelled  against.  In 
the  morning,  under  the  pseudonym  of  Mrs.  Sparks,  he  presided 
at  breakfast,  having  previously  made  tea,  coffee,  and  chocolate 
for  the  whole  cabin,  besides  boiling  about  twenty  eggs  at  various 
degrees  of  hardness;  he  was  under  heavy  recognizances  to  pro- 
vide a plate  of  buttered  toast  of  very  alarming  magnitude,  fried 
ham,  kidneys,  &c.,  to  no  end.  Later  on,  when  others  sauntered 
about  the  declc,  vainly  endeavoring  to  fix  their  attention  upon  a 
novel  or  a review,  the  poor  cornet  might  be  seen  with  a white 
apron  tucked  gracefully  round  his  spare  proportions,  whipping 
eggs  for  pancakes,  or  with  up-turned  shirt-sleeves,  fashioning 
dough  for  a pudding.  As  the  day  waned,  the  cook’s  galley  be- 
came his  haunt,  where,  exposed  to  a roasting  fire,  he  inspected 
the  details  of  a cuisine^  for  which,  whatever  his  demerits,  he 
was  sure  of  an  ample  remuneration  in  abuse  at  dinner.  Then 
came  the  dinner  itself,  that  dread  ordeal,  where  nothing  was 
praised,  and  everything  censured.  This  was  followed  by  the 
punch -making,  where  the  tastes  of  six  different  and  differing  iri 
dividuals  were  to  be  exclusively  consulted,  in  the  self-same  bev= 
erage;  and  lastly,  the  supper  at  night,  when  Sparkie,  as  he  was 
familiarly  called,  toward  evening,  grown  quite  exhausted,  be- 
came the  subject  of  unmitigated  wrath,  and  most  unmeasured 
reprobation. 

“I  say.  Sparks,  it’s  getting  late;  the  spatch  cock,  old  boy; 
don’t  be  slumbering.” 

“By  the  bye,  Sparkie,  what  a mess  you  made  of  that  pea  soup 
to-day!  By  Jove.  I never  felt  so  ill  in  my  life.” 

“ Na,  na,  it  was  na  the  soup;  it  was  something  he  pit  in  the 
punch,  that’s  burnin’  me  ever  since  Ituk  it.  Ou,  man,  but  you’re 
an  awfu’  creture  wi’  vittals.” 

“He’ll  improve.  Major,  he’ll  improve;  don’t  discourage  him; 
the  boy’s  young;  be  alive  thex^e  now — where’s  the  toast — con- 
found you — where’s  the  toast  ?” 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


m 


“ There,  Sparks,  you  like  a drumstick,  I know — musn’t  muzzle 
the  ox,  eh?  Scripture  for  you,  old  boy;  eat  away;  hang  the  ex- 
pense; hand  him  over  the  jug— empty — eh,  Charley?  Come, 
Sparkie,  bear  a hand,  the  liquor’s  out.” 

‘‘  But  won’t  you  let  me  eat  ?” 

“Eat!  heavens,  what  a fellow  for  eating!  By  George,  such 
an  appetite  is  clean  against  the  articles  of  war!  Come,  man,  it’s 
drink  we’re  thinking  of;  there’s  the  rum,  sugar,  limes;  see  to  the 
hot  water.  Well,  Skipper,  how  are  we  getting  on  ?” 

“ Lying  our  course;  eight  knots  off  the  log;  pass  the  call.  Why, 
Mister  Sparks!” 

“Eh,  Sparks,  what’s  this?” 

“Sparks,  my  man,  confound  it;”  and  then  omnes  chorusing 

Sparks!”  in  every  key  of  the  gamut,  the  luckless  fellow  would 
be  obliged  to  jump  up  from  his  meager  fare,  and  set  to  work  at 
a fresh  brewage  of  punch  for  the  others.  The  bowl  and  the 
glasses,  filled  by  some  little  management  on  Power’s  part,  our 
friend  the  cornet  would  he  drawn  out,  as  the  phrase  is,  into  some 
confession  of  his  early  years,  which  seemed  to  have  been  exclu- 
sively spent  in  love-making,  devotion  to  the  fair  being  as  inte- 
gral a portion  of  his  character  as  tippling  was  of  the  worthy  Ma- 
jor’s. 

Like  most  men  who  pass  their  life  in  over-studious  efforts  to 
please—  however  ungallant  the  confession  be — the  amiable  Sparks 
had  had  little  success;  his  love,  if  not,  as  it  generally  happened, 
totally  unrequited,  was  invariably  the  source  of  some  awkward 
catastrophe,  there  being  no  imaginable  error  he  had  not  at  some 
time  or  other  fallen  into,  nor  any  conceivable  mischance  to  which 
he  had  not  been  exposed.  Inconsolable  widows,  attached  wives, 
fond  mothers,  newly-married  brides,  engaged  young  ladies,  were 
by  sonie  contretemps,  continually  the  subject  of  his  attachments: 
and  the  least  mishap  which  followed  the  avowal  of  his  passion 
was  to  be  heartily  laughed  at,  and  obliged  to  leave  the  neigh- 
borhood. Duels,  apologies,  actions  at  law,  compensations, 
&c.,  were  of  every-day  occurrence;  and  to  such  an  extent,  too, 
that  any  man  blessed  with  a small  bump  upon  the  occiput  would 
eventually  have  long  since  abandoned  the  pursuit  and  taken  to 
some  less  expensive  pleasure;  but  poor  Sparks,  in  the  true  spirit 
of  a martyr,  only  gloried  the  more,  the  more  he  suffered;  and 
like,  the  worthy  man  who  continued  to  purchase  tickets  in  the 
lottery  for  thirty  years,  with  nothing  but  a succession  of  blanks, 
he  ever  imagined  that  Fortune  was  only  trying  his  patience, 
and  had  some  cool  forty  thousand  pounds  of  happiness  waiting 
his  perseverance  in  the  end.  Whether  this  prize  ever  did  turn 
up  in  the  course  of  years,  I am  unable  to  say;  but  certainly  up 
to  the  period  of  his  history  I now  speak  of,  all  had  been  as 
gloomy  and  unrequiting  as  need  be.  Power,  who  knew  some- 
tliing  of  every  man’s  adventures,  was  aware  of  so  much  of 
poor  Sparks’s  career,  and  usually  contrived  to  lay  a trap  for  a 
confession  that  generally  served  to  amuse  us  during  an  evening, 
as  much,  1 acknowledge,  from  the  manner  of  the  recital  as  any- 
thing contained  in  the  story.  There  was  a species  of  serious 
matter-of-fact  simplicity  in  his  detail  of  the  most  ridiculous 


16S 


OHAELES  a M ALLEY. 


scenes  that  left  you  convinced  that  his  bearing  upon  the  affair 
in  question  must  have  greatly  heightened  the  absurdity;  nothing, 
however  comic  or  droll  in  itself,  ever  exciting  in  him  the  least 
approach  to  a smile;  he  sat  with  his  large  light-blue  eyes,  light 
hair,  long  upper  lip,  and  retreating  chin,  lisping  oat  an  account 
of  an  adventure,  with  a look  of  Liston  about  him,  that  was  in- 
conceivably amusing, 

“ Come,  Sparks,”  said  Power,  I claim  a promise  you  made  me 
the  other  night,  on  condition  we  let  you  off  making  the  oyster- 
patties  at  ten  o’clock;  you  can’t  forget  what  I mean.”  Here  tiie 
Captain  knowingly  touched  the  tip  of  his  ear,  at  which  signal 
the  cornet  colored  slightly,  and  drank  off  Ihs  wine  in  a hurried, 
confused  way.  “ He  promised  to  tell  us,  Major,  how  he  lost  the 
tip  of  his  left  ear.  I have  myself  heard  hints  of  the  circum- 
stance, but  would  much  rather  bear  Sparks’s  own  version  of  it.” 

“ Another  love  story,”  said  the  Doctor,  with  a grin,  “ I’ll  be 
bound.” 

‘‘  Shot  off  in  a duel  ?”  said  I,  inquiringly;  “ close  work,  too.” 

“ No  such  thing,”  replied  Power;  ‘‘  but  Sparks  will  enlighten 
you.  It  is,  without  exception,  the  most  touching  and  beautiful 
thing  I ever  heard;  as  a simple  story,  it  beats  the  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field to  sticks,” 

“ You  don’t  say  so,”  said  poor  Sparks,  blushing. 

“ Ay,  that  I do,  and  maintain  it,  too.  I’d  rather  be  the  hero  of 
that  little  adventure,  and  be  able  to  recount  it  as  you  do — for, 
mark  me,  that’s  no  small  part  of  the  effect — than  I’d  be  full 
colonel  of  the  regiment.  Well,  I am  sure  I alwa^’S  thought  it 
affecting;  but,  somehow,  my  dear  friend,  you  don’t  know  your 
powers;  you  have  that  within  you  that  would  make  tlie  fortune  of 
half  the  periodicals  going.  Ask  Moonson  or  O’Malley  there,  if 
I did  not  say  so  at  breakfast,  when  you  were  grilling  the  old  hen, 
which,  by  -the-bye,  let  me  remark,  was  not  one  of  your  chef 
d’ oeuvres,’’'* 

“ A tougher  beastie  I never  put  a tooth  in.” 

But  the  story;  the  story,”  said  I. 

“Yes,”  said  Power,  with  a tone  of  command,  “the  story, 
Sparks.” 

“ Well,  if  you  really  think  it  worth  telling,  as  I have  always 
felt  it  a very  remarkable  incident,  here  goes.” 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

MR.  SPARKS’S  STORY. 

“I  SAT  at  breakfast,  one  beautiful  morning,  in  the  Goat  Inn 
at  Barmouth,  looking  out  by  one  window  upon  the  lovely  vale 
of  Barmouth,  with  its  tall  trees  and  brown  trout  stream  strug- 
gling through  the  woods,  then  turning  to  take  a view  of  the 
calm  sea,  that,  speckled  over  with  white*  sailed  fishing-boats, 
stretched  away  in  the  distance.  The  eggs  were  fresh;  the  trout 
newly  caught;  the  cream  delicious;  before  me  lay  the  Plwd- 
wddlwn  Advertiser,  which,  among  the  fashionable  arrivals  at 
the  sea,  set  forth  Mr.  Sparks,  nephew  of  Sir  Toby  Sparks,  of 
Manchester;  a paragrajili,  by  the  way,  I always  inserted.  The 


CHARLES  HM ALLEY.  169 

English  are  naturally  an  aristocratic  people,  and  set  a due  value 
upon  a title.” 

“A  very  just  observation,  ’ remarked  Power,  seriously,  while 
Sparks  continued: 

“However,  as  far  as  any  result  from  the  announcement,  I 
might  as  well  have  spared  myself  the  trouble;  for  not  a single 
person  called;  not  one  solitary  invitation  to  dinner;  not  a pic- 
nic; not  a breakfast;  no,  nor  even  a tea-party  was  heard  of. 
Barmouth,  at  the  time  I speak  of,  was  just  in  that  transition 
state  at  which  the  caterpillar  may  be  imagined,  when,  having 
abandoned  his  reptile  habits,  he  still  has  not  succeeded  in  be- 
coming a butterfly.  In  fact,  it  had  ceased  to  be  a fishing- village, 
but  had  not  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  a watering-place.  Now,  I 
know  nothing  as  bad  as  this.  You  have  not,  on  one  hand,  the 
quiet  retirement  of  a little  peaceful  hamlet,  with  its  humbl© 
dwellings  and  cheap  pleasures;  nor  have  you  the  gay  and  ani- 
nSated  tableau  of  fashion  in  miniature,  on  the  other;  but  you 
have  noise,  din,  bustle,  confusion,  beautiful  scenery,  and  lovely 
points  of  view,  marred  and  ruined  by  vulgar  associations;  every 
bold  rock  and  jutting  promontory  has  its  citizen  occupants; 
every  sandy  cove  or  tide-washed  bay  has  its  myriads  of  squall- 
ing babes  and  red  baize-clad  bathing- women,  those  veritable 
descendants  of  the  nymphs  of  old.  Pink  parasols,  donkey- carts, 
baskets  of  bread  and  butter,  reticules,  guides  to  Barmouth, 
specimens  of  ore,  fragments  of  gypsum,  meet  you  at  every  step, 
and  destroy  every  illusion  of  the  picturesque. 

“I  shall  leave  this,  thought  I.  My  dreams,  my  long-cherished 
dreams  of  romantic  walks  upon  the  sea-shore,  of  evening  strolls 
by  moonlight  through  dell  and  dingle,  are  reduced  to  a short 
promenade  through  an  alley  of  bathing-boxes,  amid  a streaming 
population  of  nursery-maids  and  sick  children,  with  a thorough 
bass  of  ‘ fresh  shrimps,’  discordant  enough  to  frighten  the  very 
fish  from  the  shores.  There  is  no  peace,  no  quiet,  no  romance, 
no  poetry,  no  love.  Alas!  that  most  of  all  was  wanting;  for 
after  all,  what  is  it  that  lights  up  the  heart,  save  the  flame  of 
mutual  attachment  ? what  gilds  the  fair  stream  of  life,  save  the 
bright  ray  of  warm  affection  ? what ” 

“ In  a word,”  said  Power,  “it  is  the  sugar  in  the  punch-bowfi 
of  our  existence.  Perge,  Sparks,  push  on.” 

“I  was  not  long  in  making  up  my  mind.  I called  for  my 
bill;  I packed  my  clothes;  I ordered  post-horses;  I was  ready  to 
start;  one  item  in  the  bill  alone  detained  me.  The  frequent 
occurrence  of  the  enigmatical  word  ‘ cur,’  following  my  servant’s 
name  demanded  an  explanation,  which  I was  in  the  act  of 
receiving,  when  a chaise  and  four  drove  rapidly  to  the  house. 
In  a moment  the  blinds  were  drawn  up,  and  such  a head 
appeared  at  the  wundow!  Let  me  pause  for  one  moment  to 
drink  in  the  remembrance  of  that  lovely  being;  eyes  where 
heaven’s  own  blue  concentrated,  were  shaded  by  long  deep 
lashes  of  the  darkest  brown;  a brow,  fair,  noble,  and  expansive, 
at  each  side  of  which  masses  of  dark  brown  hair  waved  half  in 
ringlets,  half  in  loose  falling  bands,  shadowing  her  pale  and 
downy  cheek,  where  one  faint  rosebud  tinge  seemed  lingering; 


170 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


lips  slightly  parted,  as  though  to  speak,  gave  to  the  features  all 
the  play  of  animation  which  completed  this  intellectual 
character,  and  made  up ” 

“ What  I should  say  a devilish  pretty  girl,”  interrupted 
Power. 

‘‘  Back  the  widow  against  her  at  long  odds  any  day,” 
murmured  the  Adjutant. 

“ She  was  an  angel,  an  angel,”  cried  Sparks,  with  enthu- 
siasm. 

“So  was  the  widow,  if  you  go  to  that,”  said  the  Adjutant, 
hastily. 

“ And  so  is  Matilda  Dalrymple,”  said  Power,  with  a sly  look 
at  me.  “ We  are  all  honorable  men;  eh,  Charley  ?” 

“ Go  ahead  with  the  story,”  said  the  Skipper;  “ I'm  beginning 
to  feel  an  interest  in  it.” 

“‘Isabella,’  said  a man’s  voice,  as  a large  well-dressed  per- 
sonage assisted  her  to  alight,  ‘ Isabella,  love,  you  must  take  a 
little  rest  here  before  we  proceed  further.’ 

“ ‘I  think  she  had  better,  sir,’  said  a matronly-looking  woman 
with  a plaid  cloak  and  a black  bonnet. 

“ They  disappeared  within  the  house,  and  I was  left  alone. 
The  bright  dream  was  passed;  she  was  there  no  longer;  but  in 
my  heart  her  image  lived,  and  I almost  felt  she  was  before  me. 
I thought  I heard  her  voice;  I saw  her  move;  my  limbs  trembled; 
my  hands  tingled;  I rang  the  bell,  orders  my  trunks  back 
again  to  No.  5,  and,  as  I sank  upon  the  sofa,  murmured  to  my- 
self, ‘ This  is  indeed  love  at  first  sight.’  ” 

“ How  devilish  sudden  it  was!”  said  the  Skipper. 

“ Exactly  like  camp  fever,”  responded  the  Doctor;  “ one  mo- 
ment ye  are  vara  well;  the  next  ye  are  seized  wi’  a kind  of 
shivering;  then  comes  a kind  of  mandering,  dandering,  travel- 
ing a’ overness.” 

“D the  camp  fever,”  interrupted  Sparks. 

“ Well,  as  I observed,  I fell  in  love;  and  here  let  me  take  the 
opportunity  of  observing  that  all  that  we  are  in  the  habit  of 
hearing  about  single  or  only  attachments  is  mere  nonsense.  No 
man  is  so  capable  of  feeling  deeply  as  he  who  is  in  the  daily 
practice  of  it.  Love  like  everything  else  in  this  world,  demands 
a species  of  cultivation.  The  mere  tyro  in  an  affair  of  the  heart 
thinks  he  has  exhansted  all  its  pleasures  and  pains;  but  only  he 
who  has  made  it  his  daily  study  for  years,  familiarized  his  mind 
with  every  phase  of  the  passion,  can  properly  or  adequately  ap- 
preciate it.  Thus,  the  more  you  love,  the  better  you  love;  the 
more  frequently  has  your  heart  yielded.” 

“ It’s  vara  like  the  mucous  membrane,”  said  the  Doctor. 

“ I’ll  break  your  neck  with  the  decanter  if  you  interrupt  him 
again!”  exclaimed  Power. 

“ For  days  I scarcely  ever  left  the  Jiouse,”  resumed  Sparks; 
“watching  to  catch  one  glance  of  the  lovely  Isabella.  My 
furthest  excursion  was  to  the  little  garden  of  the  inn,  where  I 
used  to  set  every  imaginable  species  of  snare,  in  the  event'of  her 
venturing  to  walk  there.  One  day  I would  leave  a volume  of 
poetry;  another,  a copy  of  Paul  and  Virginia  with  a marked 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


m 


page;  sometimes,  my  guitar,  with  a broad  blue  ribbon,  would 
naug  pensively  from  a tree;  but  alas!  all  in  vain;  she  never  ap- 
peared. At  length,  I took  courage  to  ask  the  waiter  about  her; 
for  some  minutes  he  could  not  comprehend  what  I meant,  but, 
at  last  discovering  my  object,  he  cried  out:  ‘ Oh!  No.  8,  sir,  it  is 
No.  8 you  mean.’ 

‘‘  ‘ It  may  be,’  said  I,  ‘ what  of  her  then  ?’ 

‘ Oh,  sir,  she’s  gone  these  three  days.’ 

“ ‘ Gone!’  said  I,  with  a groan. 

‘“Yes,  sir;  she  left  this  early  on  Tuesday  with  the  same  old 
gentleman  and  the  old  woman  in  a chaise  and  four;  they  ordered 
horses  at  Doilgelly  to  meet  them;  but  I don’t  know  which  road 
they  took  afterward.’ 

“ I fell  back  on  my  chair,  unable  to  speak.  Here  was  I enact- 
ing Romeo  for  three  mortal  days  to  a mere  company  of  Welch 
waiters  and  chambermaids,  sighing,  serenading,  reciting,  at- 
titudinizing, rose-plucking,  soliloquizing,  half-suiciding;  and  all 
for  the  edihcation  of  a set  of  savages,  with  about  as  much  civiliza- 
tion as  their  own  goats. 

“ ‘ The  bill,’  cried  I,  in  a voice  of  thunder;  ‘ my  bill  this  in- 
stant.’ 

“ I had  been  imposed  upon  shamefully,  grossly  imposed  upon, 
and  would  not  remain  another  hour  in  the  house.  Such  were 
my  feelings  at  least,  and  so  thinking,  I sent  for  my  servant,  and 
abused  him  for  not  having  my  clothes  ready  packed;  he  replied; 
I reiterated;  and,  as  my  temper  mounted,  vented  every  imagi- 
nable epithet  upon  his  head,  and  concluded  by  paying  him  his 
wages  and  sending  him  about  his  business.  In  one  hour  more 
I was  upon  the  road. 

“ ‘ What  road,  sir?’  said  the  postilion,  as  he  mounted  into  the 
saddle. 

‘“To  the  devil,  if  you  please,’  said  I,  throwing  myself  back 
in  the  carriage. 

“ ‘Very  well,  sir,’  replied  the  boy,  putting  spurs  to  his  horse. 

“ That  evening  I arrived  at  Bedgellert. 

“The  little  humble  inn  of  Bedgellert  tvith  its  thatched  roof 
and  earthern  floor,  was  a most  welcome  sight  to  me,  after  eleven 
hours’  traveling  on  a broiling  July  day.  Behind  the  very  house 
itself  rose  the  mighty  Snowdon,  towering  high  above  the  other 
mountains,  whose  lofty  peaks  were  lost  amid  the  clouds;  before 
me  was  the  narrow  valley ” 

“ Wake  me  up  when  he’s  under  w^ay  again,”  said  the  Skipper, 
yawning  fearfully. 

“Go  on.  Sparks,” said  Power,  encouragingly,  “I  was  never 
more  interested  in  my  life;  eh,  O’Malley?” 

“ Quite  thrilling,”  responded  I,  and  Sparks  resumed. 

“Three  weeks  did  I loiter  about  that  sweet  spot,  my  mind 
filled  with  images  of  the  past  and  dreams  of  the  future,  my  flsh^ 
ing-rod  my  only  companion;  not  indeed,  that  lever  caught 
anything;  for  somehow  my  tackle  was  always  getting  foul  of 
some  willow  tree  or  water  lily,  and  at  last  I gave  up  even 
the  pretense  of  whipping  the  streams.  Well,  one  day — I re- 
member it  as  well  as  though  it  were  but  yesterday — it  was 


172 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


the  fourth  of  August — I had  set  off  upon  an  excursion  to 
Llanberris.  I had  crossed  Snowdon  early,  and  reached  the  little 
lake  on  the  opposite  side  by  breakfast  time.  There  I sat  down 
near  the  ruined  tower  of  Dolbadern,  and,  opening  my  knap- 
sack, made  a hearty  meal.  I have  ever  been  a day-dreamer;  and 
there  are  few  things  I like  better  than  to  lie,  upon  some  hot  and 
sunny  day,  in  the  tall  grass  beneath  the  shade  of  some  deep 
boughs,  with  running  water  murmuring  near,  hearing  the  sum- 
mer bee  buzzing  monotonously,  and  at  the  distance,  the  clear, 
sharp  tinkle  of  the  sheep-bell.  In  such  a place,  at  such  a time, 
one’s  fancy  strays  playfully,  like  some  happy  child,  and  none 
but  pleasant  thoughts  present  themselves.  Fatigued  by  my  long 
walk,  and  overcome  by  heat,  I fell  asleep.  How  long  I lay  there, 
I cannot  tell,  but  the  deep  shadows  were  half-way  down  the  tall 
mountain  when  I awoke,  A sound  had  startled  me;  I thought  I 
heard  a voice  speaking  close  to  me.  I looked  up,  and  for  some 
seconds  I could  not  believe  that  I was  not  dreaming.  Beside  me, 
within  a few  paces,  stood  Isabella,  the  beautiful  vision  tha.t  I 
had  seen  at  Barmouth,  but  far,  a thousand  times,  more  beauti- 
ful. She  was  dressed  in  something  like  a peasant’s  dress,  and 
wore  the  round  hat  which,  in  Wales  at  least,  seems  to  suit  the 
character  of  the  female  face  so  well;  her  long  and  waving  ring- 
lets fell  carelessly  upon  her  shoulders,  and  her  cheek  flushed 
from  walking.  Before  I had  a moment’s  notice  to  recover  my 
roving  thoughts,  she  spoke;  her  voice  was  full  and  round,  but 
soft  and  thrilling,  as  she  said : 

“‘I  beg  pardon,  sir,  for  having  disturbed  you  unconsciously; 
but,  having  done  so,  may  I request  you  will  assist  me  to  fill  this 
pitcher  with  water  ?’ 

She  pointed  at  the  same  time  to  a small  stream  which  trick- 
led down  a fissure  in  the  rock,  and  formed  a little  well  of  clear 
water  beneath.  I bowed  deeply,  and  murmuring  something — I 
know  not  what — took  the  pitcher  from  her  hand,  and  scaling  the 
rocky  cliff,  mounted  to  the  clear  source  above,  where,  having 
filled  the  vessel,  I descended.  When  I reached  the  ground  be- 
neath, I discovered  that  she  was  joined  by  another  person, 
whom,  in  an  instant,  I recognized  to  be  the  old  gentleman  I had 
seen  with  her  at  Barmouth,  and  who  in  the  most  courteous  man- 
ner apologized  for  the  trouble  I had  been  caused,  and  informed 
me  that  a party  of  his  friends  were  enjoying  a little  picnic  quite 
near,  and  invited  me  to  make  one  of  them. 

“ I need  not  say  that  I accepted  the  invitation,  nor  that  with 
delight  I seized  the  opportunity  of  forming  an  acquaintance  with 
Isabella,  who,  I must  confess,  upon  her  part,  showed  no  dis- 
inclination to  the  prospect  of  my  joining  the  party. 

“After  a few  minutes’  walking  we  came  to  a small  rocky 
point  which  projected  for  some  distance  iiito  the  lake,  and  offered 
a view  for  several  miles  of  the  vale  of  Llanberris.  Upon  this 
lovely  spot  we  found  the  party  assembled;  they  consisted  of 
about  fourteen  or  fifteen  persons,  all  busily  engaged  in  the 
arrangement  of  a very  excellent  cold  dinner,  each  individual 
having  some  peculiar  province  alloted  to  him  or  her  to  be  per- 
formed by  their  (own  hands.  Thus,  one  elderly  gentleman  was 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


m 


whipping  cream  under  a chestnut-tree;  while  a very  fashionably 
dressed  young  man  was  washing  radishes  in  the  lake;  an  old 
lady  with  spectacles  was  frying  salmon  over  a wood  fire,  opposite 
to  a short  pursy  man  with  a bald  head  and  drab  shorts,  deep  in 
the  mystery  of  a chicken  salad,  from  which  he  never  lifted  his 
eyes,  when  I came  up.  It  was  thus  I found  how  the  fair 
Isabella’s  lot  had  been  cast  as  a drawer  of  water;  siie,  with  the 
others,  contributed  her  share  of  exertion  for  the  common  goodo 
The  old  gentleman  who  accompanied  her  seemed  the  only 
unoccupied  person,  and  appeared  to  be  regarded  as  the  ruler  of 
the  feast;  at  least,  they  all  called  him  General,  and  implicitly 
followed  every  suggestion  he  threw  out.  He  was  a man  of  a 
certain  grave  and  quiet  manner,  blended  with  a degree  of  mild 
good-nature  and  courtesy,  that  struck  me  much  at  first,  and 
gained  greatly  on  me,  even  in  the  few  minutes  I conversed  with 
him  as  >ve  came  along.  Just  before  he  presented  me  to  his 
friends,  he  gently  touched  my  arm,  and,  drawing  me  aside, 
whispered  in  my  ear; 

“ ‘Don’t  be  surprised  at  anything  you  may  hear  to-day  here; 
for  I must  inform  you  this  is  a kind  of  club,  as  I may  call  it, 
where  every  one  assumes  a certain  character,  and  is  bound  to 
sustain  it  under  a penalty.  We  have  these  little  meetings  every 
now  and  then;  and,  as  strangers  are  never  present,  I feel  some 
explanation  necessary,  that  you  may  be  able  to  enjoy  the  thing; 
you  understand  ?’ 

“ ‘ Oh,  perfectly,’  said  I,  overjoyed  at  the  novelty  of  the  scene, 
and  anticipating  much  pleasure  from  my  chance-meeting  with 
such  very  original  characters. 

“ ‘ Mr.  Sparks,  Mrs.  Winterbottom.  Allow  me  to  present  Mr. 
Sparks.’ 

“ ‘Any  news  from  Batavia,  young  gentleman?’  said  the  sal- 
low old  lady  addressed.  ‘ How  is  coffee?’ 

“ The  General  passed  on,  introducing  me  rapidly  as  he  went. 

“ ‘Mr.  Doolittle,  Mr.  Sparks.’ 

“ ‘Ah,  how  do  you  do,  old  boy  ?’  said  Mr.  Doolittle;  ‘sit  down, 
beside  me.  We  have  forty  thousand  acres  of  pickled  cabbage 
spoiling  for  want  of  a little  vinegar.’ 

“ ‘ Fie,  fie,  Mr.  Doolittle,’  said  the  General,  and  passed  on  to 
another. 

“ ‘ Mr.  Sparks,  Captain  Crosstree.’ 

“ ‘ Ah,  Sparks,  Sparks,  son  of  Old  Blazes!  ha,  ha,  ha!’  and  the 
captain  fell  back  into  an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter. 

“ ‘Ze  Roi  est  serviy^  said  the  thin  meager  figure  in  nankeens, 
bowing  cap  in  hand  before  the  General;  and,  accordingly,  we 
all  assumed  our  places  upon  the  grass. 

“ ‘ Say  it  again;  say  it  again!  and  I’ll  plunge  this  dagger  in 
your  heart!’  said  a hollow  voice,  tremulous  with  agitation  and 
rage,  close  beside  me.  I turned  my  head  and  saw  an  old  gentle- 
man with  a wart  on  his  nose  sitting  opposite  to  a meat  pie,  which 
he  was  contemplating  with  a look  of  fiery  indignation.  Before 
I could  witness  the  sequel  of  the  scene,  I felt  a soft  hand  pressed 
upon  mine.  I turned.  It  was  Isabella  herself,  who,  looking  at 
me  with  an  expression  I shall  never  forget,  said; 


m 


CHARLES  CMALLET. 


‘ Don’t  mind  poor  Faddy;  he  never  hurts  any  one.’ 

Meanwhile  the  business  of  dinner  went  on  rapidly;  the  serv- 
ants, of  whom  enormous  numbers  were  now  present,  ran  hither 
and  tliither;  and  duck,  ham,  pigeon-pie,  cold  veal,  apple  tarts, 
cheese,  pickled  salmon,  melon  and  rice  pudding,  flourished  on 
every  side.  As  for  me,  whatever  I might  have  gleaned  from  the 
conversation  around,  under  other  circumstances,  I was  too  much 
occupied  with  Isabella  to  think  of  any  one  else.  My  suit — for 
such  it  was — progressed  rapidly.  There  was  evidently  some- 
thing favorable  in  the  circumstances  we  last  met  under;  for  her 
manner  had  all  the  warmth  and  cordiality  of  old  friendship.  It 
is  true,  that  more  than  once  I caught  the  General’s  eye  fixed 
upon  us,  with  anything  but  an  expression  of  pleasure,  and  I 
thought  that  Isabella  blushed  and  seemed  confused  also.  What 
care  I?  however,  was  my  reflection;  my  views  are  honorable, 

and  the  nephew  and  heir  of  Sir  Toby  Sparks Just  in  the 

very  act  of  making  the  reflection,  the  old  man  in  the  snorts  hit 
me  in  the  eye  with  a roasted  apple,  calling  out  at  the  moment: 

“ ‘ When  did  you  join,  thou  child  of  the  pale-faces?’ 

‘‘  ‘ Mr.  Murdocks r cried  the  General  in  a voice  of  thunder, 
and  the  little  man  huug  down  his  head,  and  spoke  not. 

“ ‘ A word  with  you,  young  gentleman,’  said  a fat  old  lady, 
pinching  my  arm  above  the  elbow. 

“ ‘ Never  mind  her,’  said  Isabella,  smilling;  ‘ poor,  dear  old 
Dorking,  she  thinks  she’s  an  hour-glass;  how  droll,  isn’t  it?’ 

“ ‘ Young  man,  have  you  any  feelings  of  humanity  ?’  inquired 
the  old  lady,  with  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  spoke,  ‘will  you,  dare 
you  assist  a fellow- creature  under  my  sad  circumstances?’ 

“ ‘ What  can  I do  for  you,  madam?’  said  I,  really  feeling  for 
her  distress. 

“ ‘Just  like  a good,  dear  soul,  just  turn  me  up,  for  I’m  just 
run  out.’ 

“Isabella  burst  out  laughing  at  this  strange  request,  an  ex- 
cess which,  I confess,  I was  unable  myself  to  repress;  upon 
which  the  old  lady,  putting  on  a frown  of  most  ominous  black- 
ness, said: 

“ ‘You  may  laugh,  madam!  but  first,  before  you  ridicule  the 
misfortunes  of  others,  ask  yourself  are  you,  too,  free  from  in- 
firmity? When  did  you  see  the  ace  of  spades?  Madam,  an- 
swer me  that.’ 

“Isabella  became  suddenly  pale  as  death,  her  very  lips 
blanched;  and  her  voice,  almost  inaudible,  muttered: 

“ ‘ Am  I then  deceive^!  ? Is  not  this  he?’  so  saying  she  placed 
her  hand  upon  my  shoulder. 

“ ‘That  the  ace  of  spades!’  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  with  a 
sneer;  ‘ that  the  ace  of  spades!’ 

“ ‘ Are  you,  or  are  you  not,  sir?’  said  Isabella,  fixing  her  deep 
and  languid  eyes  upon  me;  ‘answer,  as  you  are  honest,  are  you 
the  ace  of  spades  ?’ 

“ ‘ He  is  the  King  of  Tuscarora;  look  at  his  war  paint,’  cried 
an  elderly  gentleman,  putting  a s'treak  of  mustard  across  my 
nose  and  cheek. 


CHARLES  O’MALLEY,  175 

“ ‘Then  am  I deceived,’  said  Isabella;  and,  flying  at  me,  sb^ 
plucked  a handful  of  hair  out  of  my  whiskers. 

“ ‘ Cuckoo,  cuckoo,'  shouted  one;  ‘ bow,  wow,  wow,’  shouted 
another;  ‘phiz,’ went  a third;  and  in  an  instant,  a scene  of 
commotion  and  riot  ensued;  plates,  dishes,  knives,  forks,  and 
decanters  flew  right  and  left;  every  one  pitched  into  his  neigh- 
bor with  the  most  feaful  cries,  and  hell  itself  seemed  broke  loose;' 
the  hour-glass  and  the  Moulah  of  Oude  had  got  me  down,  andf 
were  pommeling  me  to  death,  when  a short,  thick-set  man 
came  on  all-fours  slap  down  upon  them,  shouting  out:  ‘ Way, 
make  way  for  the  Royal  Bengal  tiger,’  at  which  they  both  fled 
like  lightning,  leaving  me  to  the  encounter  single-handed.  For- 
tunately, however,  this  was  not  of  very  long  duration,  for  some 
well-disposed  Christians  pulled  him  from  off  me;  not,  however, 
before  he  had  seized  me  in  his  grasp,  and  bitten  off  a portion  of 
my  right  ear,  leaving  me,  as  you  see,  thus  mutilated  for  the  rest 
of  my  days.” 

“ What  an  extraordinary  club!”  broke  in  the  Doctor. 

“ Club!  sir,  club!”  it  was  a lunatic  asylum.  The  General  was 
no  other  than  the  famous  Dr.  Andrew  Moorville,  that  had  the 
great  mad- house  at  Bangor,  and  who  was  in  the  habit  of  giving 
his  patients  every  now  and  then  a kind  of  country  party;  it 
being  one  remarkable  feature  of  their  malady  that,  when  one 
takes  to  his  peculiar  flight  whatever  it  be,  the  others  immediate- 
ly take  the  hint,  and  gooff  at  score;  hence  my  agreeable  advent- 
ure; the  Bengal  tiger  being  a Liverpool  merchant,  and  the 
most  vicious  madman  in  England;  while  the  hour  glass  and  the 
Moulah  were  both  on  an  experimental  tour  to  see  whether  they 
should  not  be  pronunced  totally  incurable  for  life ” 

“ And  Isabella  ?”  inquired  Power. 

“Ah!  poor  Isabella  had  been  driven  mad  by  a card-playing 
aunt  at  Bath,  and  was,  in  fact,  the  most  hopeless  case  there. 
The  last  words  I heard  her  speak  confirmed  my  mournful  im- 
pression of  her  case.” 

“ ‘Yes,’  said  she,  as  they  removed  her  to  her  carriage,  ‘ I must, 
indeed,  have  but  weak  intellect,  when  I could  have  taken  the 
nephew  of  a Manchester  cotton-spinner,  with  a face  like  a 
printed  calico,  for  a trump  card,  and  the  best  in  the  pack!” 

Poor  Sparks  uttered  these  last  words  with  a faltering  accent, 
and,  finishing  his  glass  at  one  draught,  withdrew  without  wish- 
ing us  good-night. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE  SKIPPER. 

In  such  like  gossipings  passed  our  days  away,  for  our  voyage 
itself  had  nothing  of  adventure  or  incident  to  break  its  dull 
monotony;  save  some  few  hours  of  calm,  we  had  been  steadily 
following  our  seaward  track  with  a fair  breeze,  and  the  long 
pennant  pointed  ever  to  the  land,  where  our  ardent  expectations 
were  hurrying  before  it. 

The  latest  accounts  which  had  reached  us  from  the  Peninsula, 
told  that  our  regiment  almost  daily  engaged;  and  we 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


\U 

burned  with  impatience  to  share  with  the  others  the  glory  they 
were  reaping.  Power,  who  had  seeAi  service,  felt  less  on  this 
score  than  we  who  had  not  “ fleshed  our  maiden  swords;”  but 
even  he  sometimes  gave  way,  and  when  the  wind  fell,  toward 
sunset,  he  would  break  out  into  some  exclamation  of  discontent, 
half  fearing  we  should  be  too  late;  “for,”  said  he,  “if  they  con- 
tinue in  this  way,  the  regiment  will  be  relieved  and  ordered 
home  before  we  reach  it.” 

“ Never  fear,  my  boys;  you  will  have  enough  of  it.  Both  sides 
like  the  work  too  well  to  give  in;  they’ve  got  a capital  ground 
and  plenty  of  spare  time,”  said  the  Major. 

“ Only  to  think,”  cried  Power,  “ that  we  should  be  lounging 
away  our  idle  hours,  when  these  gallant  fellows  are  in  the  sad^ 
die,  late  and  early.  It  is  too  bad;  eh,  O’Malley?  you’ll  not  be 
pleased  to  go  back  with  the  polish  on  your  saber.  What  will 
Lucy  Dash  wood  say  ?” 

This  was  the  first  allusion  Power  had  ever  made  to  her,  and  I 
became  red  to  the  very  forehead. 

“By  the  bye,”  added  he,  “I  have  a letter  for  Hammersly, 
which  should  rather  have  been  intrusted  to  your  keeping.” 

At  these  words  I felt  cold  as  death,  while  he  continued: 

“Poor  fellow;  certainly  he  is  most  desperately  smitten;  for, 
mark  me,  when  a man  at  his  age  takes  the  malady,  it  is  forty 
times  ss  severe  as  with  a younger  fellow,  like  you.  But  then, 
to  be  sure,  he  began  at  the  wrong  end  in  the  matter;  why  com- 
mence with  papa  ? When  a man  has  his  own  consent  for  liking 
a girl,  he  must  be  a contemptible  fellow  if  he  can’t  get  her;  and 
as  to  anything  else  being  wanting,  I don’t  understand  it.  But 
the  moment  you  begin  by  influencing  the  heads  of  the  house, 
good-bye  to  your  chances  with  the  dear  thing  herself,  if  she  have 
any  spirit  whatever.  It  is  in  fact  calling  on  her  to  surrender 
without  the  honors  of  war;  and  what  girl  would  stand  that?” 

“ It’s  vara  true,”  said  the  Doctor,  “ there’s  a strong  speerit  of 
opposition  in  the  sex,  from  physiological  causes.” 

“ Curse  your  physiology,  old  Galen;  what  you  call  opposition, 
is  that  piquant  resistance  to  oppression  that  makes  half  the  charm 
of  the  sex.  It  is  with  them — with  reverence  be  it  spoken — as 
with  horses;  the  dull,  heavy- shouldered  ones  that  bore  away 
with  the  bit  in  their  teeth,  never  caring  whether  you  are  pulling 
to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  are  worth  nothing;  the  real  luxury  is 
in  the  management  of  your  arching  necked  curveter,  springing 
from  side  to  side  with  every  motion  of  your  wrist,  madly  bound- 
ing at  restraint;  yet,  to  the  practiced  hand,  held  in  check  with  a 
silk  thread;  eh.  Skipper,  am  I not  right?” 

“ Well,  I i^an’t  say  I’ve  had  much  to  do  with  horse  beasts,  but 
I believe  you’re  not  far  wrong.  The  lively  craft  that  answers 
the  helm  quick,  goes  round  well,  in  stays;  luffs  up  close  within 
a point  or  two,  when  you  want  her;  is  always  a good  sea  boat, 
even  though  she  pitches  and  rolls  a bit;  but  the  heavy  lugger 
that  never  knows  whether  your  helm  is  up  or  down;  whether 
she’s  off  the  wing  or  on  it;  is  only  fit  for  firewood;  you  can  do 
nothing  with  a ship  or  woman,  if  she  hasn’t  got  steerage  way  on 
her.” 


CHARLES  CMALLEY.  177 

CoDie,  Skipper,  we’ve  all  been  telling  our  stories;  let  us  hear 
one  of  yours.” 

My  yarn  won’t  come  so  well  after  your  sky-scrapers  of  love 
and  courting,  and  all  that;  but,  if  you  like  to  hear  what  happen- 
ed to  me  once,  I have  no  objection  to  tell  you. 

“I  often  think  how  little  we  know  of  what’s  going  to  happen 
to  us  any  minute  of  our  lives.  To-day  we  have  the  breeze  fair 
in  our  favor;  we  are  going  seven  knots,  studding-sails  set, 
smooth  water,  and  plenty  of  sea  room;  to-morrow  the  wind 
freshens  to  half  a gale,  the  sea  gets  up,  a rocky  coast  is  seen 
from  the  lee  bow,  and  maybe — to  add  to  all — we  spring  a leak 
forward;  but  then,  after  all,  bad  as  it  looks,  mayhap,  we  rub 
through  even  this,  and,  with  the  next  day,  the  prospect  is  as 
bright  and  cheering  as  ever.  You’ll,  perhaps,  ask  me  what  has 
all  this  moralizing  to  do  with  women  and  ships  at  sea?  Nothing 
at  all  with  them,  except  that  I was  going  to  say  that  when  mat- 
ters look  worst,  very  often  the  best  is  in  store  for  us,  and  we 
should  never  say  strike  when  there  is  a timber  togetlier.  Now 
for  my  story: 

‘‘  It’s  about  four  years  ago,  I was  strolling  one  evening  down 
the  side  of  the  harbor  at  Cove,  with  my  hands  in  my  pocket, 
having  nothing  to  do,  nor  no  prospect  of  it,  for  my  last  ship  had 
been  wrecked  off  the  Bermudas,  and  nearly  all  the  crew  lost; 
and,  somehow,  when  a man  is  in  misfortune,  the  underwriters 
won’t  have  him  at  no  price.  A Veil,  there  I was  looking  about 
me  at  the  craft  that  lay  on  every  side  waiting  for  a fair  wind 
to  run  down  channel.  All  was  active  and  busy;  everyone  get- 
ting his  vessel  ship-shape  and  tidy,  tarring,  painting,  mending 
sails,  stretching  new  bunting,  and  getting  in  sea-store;  boats 
were  plying  on  every  side,  signals  flying,  guns  firing  from  the 
men-of-war,  and  everything  was  lively  as  might  be;  all  but  me. 
There  I was,  like  an  old  water-logged  timber  ship,  never  moving 
a spar,  but  looking  for  all  the  world  as  though  I were  settling 
fast  to  go  down  stern  foremost;  maybe  as  how  I had  no  objec- 
tion to  that  same;  but  that’s  neither  here  nor  there.  Well,  I sat 
dowm  on  the  fluke  of  an  anchor,  and  began  a thinking  if  it 
wasn’t  better  to  go  before  the  mast  than  live  on  that  way. 
Just  before  me,  where  I sat  down,  there  was  an  old  schooner 
that  lay  moored  in  the  same  place  for  as  long  as  I could  remem- 
ber; she  was  there  when  I was  a boy  and  never  looked  a 
bit  the  fresher  nor  newer  as  long  as  I recollected;  her 
old  bluff  bows,  her  high  poop,  her  round  stern,  her  flush 
deck,  all  Dutch-like,  I know  them  well,  and  many  a time 
I delighted  to  think  what  queer  kind  of  a chap  he  was  that 
first  set  her  on  the  stocks,  and  pondered  in  what  trade  she 
ever  could  have  been.  All  the  sailors  about  the  port  used  to 
call  her  Noah’s  Ark,  and  swear  she  was  the  identical  craft  that 
he  stowed  away  all  the  wild  beast  in  during  the  rainy  season;  be 
that  as  it  might,  since  I fell  into  misfortune  I got  to  feel  a liking 
for  the  old  schooner;  she  was  like  an  old  friend;  she  never 
changed  to  me,  fair  weather  or  foul;  there  she  was  just  the 
same  as  thu’ty  years  before,  when  all  the  world  were  forgetting 
^nd  steering  wide  away  from  me.  Every  morning  I used  to  go 


178 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


down  to  the  harbor  and  have  a look  at  her,  just  to  see  that  all 
was  right,  and  nothing  stirred;  and  if  it  blew  very  hard  at  night, 
I'd  get  up  and  go  down  to  look  how  she  weathered  it,  just  as  if 
I was  at  sea  in  her.  Now  and  then  I got  some  of  the  watermen 
to  row  me  aboard  of  her,  and  leave  me  there  for  a few  hours, 
when  I used  to  be  quite  happy  walking  the  deck,  holding  the 
old  worm-eaten  wheel,  looking  out  ahead,  and  going  down  be- 
low, just  as  though  I was  in  command  of  her.  Da^^  after  day 
this  habit  grew  on  me,  and  at  last  my  whole  life  was  spent  in 
watching  her  and  looking  after  her;  there  was  something  so 
much  alike  in  our  fortunes,  that  I always  thought  of  her.  Like 
myself,  she  had  had  lier  day  of  life  and  activity;  we  had  both 
braved  the  storm  and  the  breeze;  her  shattered  bulwarks  and 
worn  cut-water  attested  that  she  had,  like  myself,  not  escaped 
her  calamities.  We  both  had  survived  our  dangers,  to  be 
neglected  and  forgotten,  and  to  lie  rotting  on  the  stream  of  life 
till  the  crumbling  hand  of  time  should  break  us  up,  timber  by 
timber.  Is  it  any  wonder  if  I loved  the  old  craft;  or  if,  by  any 
chance,  the  idle  boys  would  venture  abroad  of  her  to  play  and 
amuse  themselves,  that  I hallooed  them  away;  or,  when  a new- 
ly-arrived ship  not  caring  for  the  old  boat,  would  run  foul  of  her 
and  carry  away  some  spar  or  piece  of  rigging,  I would  suddenly 
call  out  to  them  to  sheer  off,  and  not  damage  us  ? By  degrees 
they  all  came  to  notice  this;  and  I found  that  they  thought  me 
out  of  my  senses,  and  many  a trick  was  played  off  upon  old 
Noah,  for  that  was  the  name  the  sailors  gave  me. 

“ Well,  this  evening,  as  I was  saying,  I sat  upon  the  fluke  of 
the  anchor,  waiting  for  a chance  boat  to  put  me  aboard.  It  was 
past  sunset,  the  tide  was  ebbing,  and  the  old  craft  was  surging 
to  the  fast  current  that  ran.  by  with  a short,  impatient  jerk,  as 
though  she  w^ere  well  weary,  and  wished  to  be  at  rest;  her  loose 
backstays  creaked  mournfully,  and,  as  she  yawed  over,  the  sea 
ran  from  many  a breach  in  her  worn  sides,  like  blood  trickling 
from  a wound.  Ay,  ay,  thought  I,  the  hour  is  not  far  off; 
another  stiff  gale,  and  all  that  remains  of  you  will  be  found  high 
and  dry  upon  the  shore.  My  heart  was  very  heavy  as  I thought 
of  this;  for,  in  my  loneliness,  the  Old  Ark — though  that  was  not 
her  name,  as  I’ll  tell  you  presently — was  all  the  companion  I 
had.  I’ve  heard  of  a poor  prisoner  who.  for  mfuiy  and  many 
years,  watched  a spider  that  wove  his  web  wdthin  his  window, 
and  never  lost  sight  of  him  from  morning  till  night,  and,  some- 
how, I can  believe  it  well  the  heart  will  cling  to  something,  and 
if  it  has  no  living  object  to  press  to,  it  will  find  a lifeless  one;  it 
can  no  more  stand  alone  than  the  shrouds  can  without  the  mast. 
The  evening  wore  on,  as  I was  thinking  thus;  the  moon  shone 
out,  but  no  boat  came,  and  I was  just  determining  to  go  home 
again  for  the  night,  when  I saw  two  men  standing  on  the  steps 
of  the  wharf  below  me,  and  looking  straight  at  the  Ark.  Now, 
I must  tell  you,  I always  felt  uneasy  when  any  one  came  to  look 
at  her,  for  I began  to  fear  that  some  ship  owner  or  other  would 
buy  her  to  break  up,  though,  except  the  copper  fastenings,  there 
was  little  of  any  value  about  her.  Now,  the  moment  I saw  the 
two  figures  stop  short  and  point  to  her,  I said  to  myself  1 ‘ Ah  I 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


179 


my  old  girl,  so  they  won’t  even  let  the  blue  water  finish  you, 
but  they  must  set  their  carpenters  and  dock- yard  ])eople  to  work 
upon  you.’  This  thought  grieved  me  more  and  more.  Had  a 
stiff  sbu’-wester  laid  her  over,  I should  have  felt  it  was  natural, 
for  her  sand  was  run  out;  but  just  as  this  passed  through  my 
mind,  I heard  a voice  from  one  of  the  persons,  that  I at  once 
knew  to  be  the  Port  Admiral’s: 

“ ‘Well,  Dawkins,’  said  he  to  the  other,  ‘if  you  think  she’ll 
hold  together,  I’m  sure  I’ve  no  objection;  I don’t  like  the  job, 

I confess,  but  still  the  Admiralty  must  be  obeyed.’ 

“ ‘ Oh,  my  Lord!’  says  the  other,  ‘ she’s  the  very  thing;  she’s 
a rakish-looking  craft,  and  will  do  admirably;  any  repair  we 
want,  a few  days  will  effect;  secresy  is  the  great  thing.’ 

“‘Yes,’ said  the  Admiral,  after  a pause,  ‘as  you  observed, 
secresy  is  the  great  thing.’ 

“Ho,  ho!  thought  I,  there’s  something  in  the  wind  here;  so  I 
laid  myself  out  upon  the  anchor-stock  to  listen  better  unobserved. 
“ ‘ We  must  find  a ere w for  her,  give  her  a few  carronades,  make 
her  as  ship-shape  as  we  can,  and  if  the  skipper’ — ‘ ay,  but  there 
is  the  real  difficulty,’  said  the  Admiral,  hastily,  ‘ where  are  we 
to  find  the  fellow  that  will  suit  us?  We  can’t  every  day  find  a 
man  willing  to  jeopardy  himself  in  such  a cause  as  this,  even 
though  the  reward  be  a great  one.’ 

“ ‘ Very  true,  my  Lord,  but  I don’t  think  there  is  any  neces- 
sity for  our  explaining  to  him  the  exact  nature  of  the  service.’ 

“ ‘ Come,  come,  Dawkins,  you  can’t  mean  that  you’d  lead  a 
poor  fellow  intojsuch  a scrape  blindfolded  ?’ 

“ ‘ Why,  my  Lord,  you  never  think  it  requisite  to  give  a plan 
of  your  cruise  to  your  ship’s  crew  before  clearing  out  of  harbor; 
they  are  no  worse  off  than  we  shall  be.’ 

“ ‘This  may  be  perfectly  just,  but  I don’t  like  it,’  said  the 
Admiralo 

“ ‘ In  that  case,  my  Lord,  you  are  imparting  the  secrets  of  the 
Admiralty  to  a party  who  may  betray  the  whole  plot.’ 

“ ‘ I wish  with  all  my  soul  they’d  given  the  order  to  any  one 
else,’  said  the  Admiral,  with  a sigh,  and  for  a few  moments 
nether  spoke  a word. 

“ ‘ Well,  then,  Dawkins,  I believe  there  is  nothing  for  us  but 
what  you  say;  meanwhile,  let  the  repairs  be  got  in  hand,  and 
see  after  a crew.’ 

“ ‘ Oh,  as  to  that,’  said  the  other,  ‘ there  are  plenty  of  scoun- 
drels in  the  fleet  here  fit  for  nothing  else.  Any  fellow  who  has 
been  thrice  up  for  punishment  hi  six  months,  we’ll  draft  on 
board  of  her — the  fellows  who  have  been  only  once  to  the  gang- 
way, we’ll  make  the  officers.’ 

“A  pleasant  ship’s  company,  thought  I,  if  the  devil  would 
only  take  the  command. 

“ ‘And  with  a skipper  proportionate  to  her  merit,’  said  Daw- 
kins. 

“ ‘ Begad,  I’ll  wish  the  French  joy  of  them,’  said  the  Admiral. 

“ Ho,  ho!  thought  I,  I’ve  found  you  out  at  last;  so  this  is  a 
secret  expedition;  I see  it  all;  they’re  fit  tin’  her  out  as  a fire- 
ship, and  going  to  send  her  slap  in  among  the  French  fleet  at 


180 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


Brest.  Well,  thought  I,  even  that’s  better;  that,  at  least,  is  a 
glorious  end,  though  the  poor  fellows  have  no  chance  to  escape. 

“‘Now  then,’ said  the  Admiral,  ‘to-morrow  you’ll  look  out 
for  the  fellow  to  take  command;  he  must  be  a smart  seaman,  a 
bold  fellow,  too,  otherwise  the  ruffianly  crew  will  be  too  much 
for  him;  he  may  bid  high,  we’ll  come  to  his  price." 

“So  you  may,  thought  I,  when  you  are  buying  his  life. 

“‘I  hope  sincerely,’ continued  the  Admiral,  ‘that  we  may 
light  upon  some  one  without  wife  or  child,  I never  could  for- 
give myself ’ 

“ ‘ Never  fear,  my  Lord,’  said  the  other;  ‘ my  care  shall  be  to 
pitch  upon  one  whose  loss  no  one  w’ould  feel;  some  one  without 
friend  or  home,  who,  setting  his  life  for  naught,  cares  less  for 
the  gain  than  the  very  recklessness  of  the  adventure.’ 

“ ‘ That’s  me,’  said  I,  springing  up  from  the  anchor- stock,  and 
springing  between  them;  ‘ I'm  that  man.’ 

“ Had  the  very  devil  himself  appeared  at  the  moment,  I doubt 
if  they  would  have  been  more  scared.  The  Admiral  started  a 
pace  or  two  backward,  while  Dawkins,  the  first  surprise  over, 
seized  me  by  the  collar,  and  held  me  fast. 

“ ‘Who  are  you,  scoundrel,  and  what  brings  you  here?’  said 
he  in  a voice  hoarse  with  passion. 

“ ‘ I’m  Old  Noah,’  said  I;  for,  somehow,  I had  been  called  by 
no  other  name  for  so  long,  I never  thought  of  my  real  one. 

“ ‘Noah!’  said  the  Admiral,  ‘Noah!  Well,  but,  Noah,  what 
were  you  doing  down  here  at  this  time  of  night  ?’ 

“ ‘ I was  a watching  the  Ark,  my  Lord,’  said  I,  bowing,  as  I 
took  off  my  hat. 

“ ‘I’ve  heard  of  this  fellow  before,  my  Lord,’  said  Dawkins; 
‘ he’s  a poor  lunatic  that  is  always  wandering  about  the  harbor, 
and,  I believe,  has  no  harm  in  him.’ 

“ ‘Yes.  but  he  has  been  listening,  doubtless,  to  our  conversa- 
tion," said  the  Admiral.  ‘Eh,  have  you  heard  all  we  have  been 
saying  ?’ 

“ ‘ Every  word  of  it,  my  Lord.’ 

“ At  this  the  Admiral  and  Dawkins  looked  steadfastly  at  each 
other  for  some  minutes,  but  neither  spoke;  at  last  Dawkins  said: 
‘ Well,  Noah,  I’ve  been  told  you  are  a man  to  be  depended  on; 
may  we  rely  upon  your  not  repeating  anything  you  overheard 
this  evening;  at  least  for  a year  to  come!’ 

“ ‘You  may,’ said  I. 

“ ‘But,  Dawkins,’  said  the  Admiral,  in  a half  whisper,  ‘ if  the 
poor  fellow  be  mad?’ 

“ ‘ My  Lord,’  said  I boldly,  ‘I  am  not  mad.  Misfortune  and 
calamity  I have  had  enough  of  to  make  me  so;  but,  thank  God, 
my  brain  has  been  tougher  than  my  poor  heart.  I was  once  the 
part  owner  and  commander  of  a goodly  craft  that  swept  the  sea, 
if  not  with  a broad  pennon  at  her  mast-head,  wuth  as  light  a spirit 
as  ever  lived  beneath  one.  I was  rich ; I had  a home  and  a child; 
I am  now  poor,  houseless,  childless,  friendless  and  outcast.  If, 
in  my  solitary  w'retchedness,  I have  loved  to  look  upon  that  old 
bark,  it  is  because  its  fortune  seemed  like  my  own.  It  had  out- 
lived all  that  needed  or  cared  for  it;  for  this  reason  have  they 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


181 


thought  me  mad,  though  there'are  those,  and  not  a few  either,  who 
can  well  bear  testimony  if  stain  or  reproach  lie  at  my  dcor,  and  if 
I can  be  reproached  with  aught  save  bad  luck.  I have  heard,  by 
chance,  what  you  have  said  this  night;  I know  that  you  are 
fitting  out  a secret  expedition;  I know  its  dangers,  its  inevitable 
dangers;  and  I here  offer  myself  to  lead  it;  I ask  no  reward;  I 
look  for  no  price;  alas!  who  is  left  to  me  for  whom  I could  labor 
now?  Giv^e  me  but  the  opportunity  to  end  my  days  with  honor 
on  board  the  old  craft  where  my  heart  still  clings;  give  me  but 
that.  Well,  if  you  will  not  do  so  much,  let  me  serve  among  the 
crew;  put  me  before  the  mast.  My  Lord,  you’ll  not  refuse  this; 
it  is  an  old  man  asks,  one  whose  gray  hairs  have  fioated  many  ^ 
year  before  the  bretze.’ 

“ ‘My  poor  fellow,  you  know  not  what  you  ask;  this  is  no 
common  case  of  danger.’ 

“ ‘ I know  it  all,  my  Lord,  I have  heard  it  all.’ 

“ ‘ Dawkins,  what  is  to  be  done  here?”  inquired  the  Admiral. 

“ ‘ I say,  friend,’  inquired  Dawkins,  laying  his  hand  upon  my 
arm,  ‘ what  is  your  real  name  ? Are  you  he  that  commanded 
the  Dwarf  privateer  in  the  Isle  cf  France  ?’ 

“ ‘ The  same.’ 

“ ‘ Then  you  are  known  to  Lord  Collingwood  ?’ 

“ ‘He  knows  me  well,  and  can  speak  to  my  character.’ 

“ ‘ What  he  Says  of  himself  is  all  true,  my  Lord.’ 

“ ‘ True,’  said  I,  ‘ true!  you  did  not  doubt  it,  did  you?’ 

“‘We,’  said  the  Admiral,  ‘must  speak  together  again;  be 
here  to-morrow  night  at  this  hour,  keep  your  own  counsel  of 
what  has  passed,  and,  now,  good-night.’  So  saying,  the  Admiral 
took  Dawkins  by  the  arm,  and  returned  slowly  toward  the  town, 
leaving  me,  where  I stood,  meditating  on  this  singular  meeting, 
and  its  possible  consequences. 

“ The  whole  of  the  following  day  was  passed  by  me  in  a state 
of  feverish  excitement  which  I cannot  describe;  this  strange 
adventure  breaking  in  so  suddenly  upon  the  dull  monotony  of 
my  daily  existence,  had  so  aroused  and  stimulated  me,  that  I 
could  neither  rest  nor  eat.  How  I longed  for  night  to  come! 
for,  sometimes,  as  tiie  day  wore  later,  I began  to  fear  that  the 
whole  scene  of  my  meeting  with  the  Admiral  had  been  merely 
some  excited  dream  of  a tortured  and  fretted  mind,  and,  as  I 
stood  examining  the  ground  where  I believed  the  interview  to 
have  occurred,  I endeavored  to  recall  the  position  of  different 
objects  as  they  stood  around,  to  corroborate  my  own  failing 
remembrance. 

“ At  last  the  evening  closed  in;  but,  unlike  the  preceding  one, 
the  sky  was  covered  with  masses  of  dark  and  watery  clouds,  that 
drifted  hurriedly  across;  the  air  felt  heavy  and  thick,  and  un 
naturally  still  and  calm;  the  water  of  the  harbor  looked  of  a 
dull  leaden  hue,  and  all  the  vessels  seemed  larger  than  they 
were,  and  stood  out  from  the  landscape  more  clearly  than  usual; 
now  and  then  a low  rumbling  noise  was  heard,  somewhat  alike 
in  sound,  but  far  too  faint  for  distant  thunder,  while  occasion- 
ally the  boats  and  smaller  craft  rocked  to  and  fro,  as  though 


182 


CHABLES  OMALLEY. 


some  ground' swell  stirred  them,  without  breaking  the  languid 
surface  of  the  sea  above. 

“ A few  drops  of  thick  heavy  rain  fell  just  as  the  darkness 
came  on,  and  then  all  felt  still  and  calm  as  before.  I sat  upon 
the  anchor  stock,  my  eyes  fixed  upon  the  Old  Ark,  until,  grad- 
ually her  outline  grew  fainter  and  fainter  against  the  dark  sky, 
and  her  black  hull  could  scarcely  be  distinguished  from  the 
water  beneath.  I felt  that  I was  looking  toward  her;  for,  long 
after,  I had  lost  sight  of  the  tall  mast  and  high-pitched  bow- 
sprit, and  feared  to  turn  away  my  head  lest  I should  lose  the 
place  where  she  lay. 

‘‘The  time  went  slowly  on,  and,  although  in  reahty  I had 
not  been  long  there,  I felt  as  if  years  themselves  had  passed 
over  my  head.  Since  I had  come  there  my  mind  brooded 
over  all  the  misfortunes  of  my  life;  as  I contrasted  its  outset, 
bright  with  hope  and  rich  with  promise,  with  the  sad  reality, 
my  heart  grew  heavy  and  my  chest  heaved  painfully;  so  sunk 
was  I in  my  refiection,  so  lost  in  thought,  that  I never  knew 
that  the  storm  had  broken  loose,  and  that  the  heavy  rain 
was  falling  in  torrents.  The  very  ground,  parched  with  long 
drought,  smoked  as  it  pattered  upon  it,  while  the  low,  wailing 
cry  of  the  sea-gull,  mingled  with  the  growl  of  far-off  thunder, 
told  that  the  night  was  a fearful  one  for  those  at  sea.  Wet 
through  and  shivering,  I sat  still,  now  listening,  amid  the  noise 
of  the  hurricaue  and  the  creaking  of  the  cordage,  for  any  foot- 
step to  approach;  and  now,  relapsing  back  into  a half-despairing 
dread  that  my  heated  brain  alone  had  conjured  up  the  scene  of 
the  day  before.  Such  were  my  dreary  refiections,  when  a loud 
crash  aboard  the  schooner  told  me  that  some  old  spar  had  given 
way.  I strained  my  eyes  through  the  dark  to  see  what  had 
happened,  but  in  vain;  the  black  vapor,  thick  with  falling  rain, 
obscured  everything,  and  all  was  hid  from  view.  I could  hear 
that  she  worked  violently  as  the  waves  beat  against  her  worn 
sides,  and  that  her  iron  cable  creaked  as  she  pitched  to  the 
breaking  sea.  The  wind  was  momentarily  increasing,  and  I 
began  to  fear  lest  I should  have  taken  my  last  look  at  the  old 
craft,  when  my  attention  was  called  off  by  hearing  a loud  cry  out: 

‘ Hollo,  there!  Where  are  you?’ 

“ ‘ Ay,  ay,  sir.  I’m  here.’  In  a moment  the  Admiral  and  his 
friend  were  beside  me. 

“ ‘ What  a night!’  exclaimed  the  Admiral,  as  he  shook  the  rain 
from  the  heavy  boat-cloak,  and  cowered  in  beneath  some  tall 
block  of  granite  near.  ‘ I began  half  to  hope  that  might  not 
have  been  my  poor  fellow,’ said  the  Admiral;  ‘ it’s  a dreadful 
time  for  one  so  poorly  clad  for  a storm;  I say,  Dawkins,  let  him 
have  a pull  at  your  fiask.’  The  brandy  rallied  me  a little,  and 
I felt  that  it  cheered  my  drooping  courage. 

“ ‘ This  is  not  a time,  nor  is  it  a place  for  much  parley,’  said 
the  Admiral,  ‘ so  that  we  must  make  even  short  work  of  it. 
Since  we  met  here  last  night  I have  satisfied  myself  that  you 
are  to  be  trusted,  that  your  character  and  reputation  have  noth- 
ing heavier  against  them  than  misfortune,  which,  certainly,  if  I 
have  been  rightly  informed,  has  been  largely  dealt  out  to  you 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


183 


Now,  then,  I am  willing  to  accept  of  your  offer  of  service,  if 
you  are  still  of  the  same  mind  as  when  you  made  it,  and  if  you 
are  willing  to  undertake  what  we  have  to  do  without  any  ques- 
tion and  inquiry  as  to  points  on  which  we  must  not  and  dare  not 
inform  you.  Whatever  you  may  have  overheard  last  night  may 
or  may  not  have  put  you  in  possession  of  our  secret.  If  the  for- 
mer, your  determination  can  be  made  at  once;  if  the  latter,  you 
have  only  to  decide  whether  you  are  ready  to  go  blindfolded  in 
the  business.’ 

“ ‘ I am  ready,  my  lord,’  said  I. 

‘ You  perhaps  are  then  aware  what  is  the  nature  of  the  serv- 
ice ?’ 

“ ‘ I know  it  not,’  said  I.  ‘ All  that  I heard,  sir,  leads  me  to 
suppose  it  one  of  danger,  but  that’s  all.’ 

“ ‘ I think,  my  lord,’  said  Dawkins,  ‘ that  no  more  need  now 
be  said.  Cupples  is  ready  to  engage,  we  are  equally  so  to  accept; 
the  thing  is  pressing.  When  can  you  sail  ?’ 

“ ‘ To-night,’  said  I,  ‘ if  you  will.’ 

‘ Really,  Da  wkins,’  said  the  Admiral,  ‘ I don’t  see  why ’ 

‘ My  lord,  I beg  of  you,'  said  the  other,  interrupting,  ‘ let  me 
know  the  complete  arrangement.  This  is  the  plan,’  said  he, 
turning  toward  me  as  he  spoke:  ‘ As  soon  as  that  pld  craft  can 
be  got  ready  for  sea,  or  some  other,  if  she  be  not  worth  it,  you 
will  sail  from  this  port  with  a strong  crew,  well  armed  and  sup- 
plied with  ammunition.  Your  destination  is  Malta,  your  object 
to  deliver  to  the  Admiral  stationed  there  the  dispatches  with 
which  you  will  be  intrusted;  they  contain  information  of  im- 
mense importance,  which,  for  certain  reasons,  cannot  be  sent 
through  a ship  of  war,  but  must  be  forwarded  by  a vessel  that 
may  not  attract  peculiar  notice.  If  you  be  attacked , your  orders 
are  to  resist;  if  you  be  taken,  on  no  account  destroy  the  papers, 
for  the  French  vessel  can  scarcely  escape  recapture  from  our 
frigates,  and  it  is  of  great  consequence  that  these  papers  should 
remain.  Such  is  a brief  sketch  of  our  plans;  the  details  can  be 
made  known  to  you  hereafter.’ 

“ ‘I  am  quite  ready,  my  lord;  I ask  for  no  terms;  I make  no 
stipulations.  If  the  result  be  favorable  it  will  be  time  enough  to 
speak  of  that.  When  am  I to  sail?’ 

“As  I spoke,  the  Admiral  turned  suddenly  round  and  said 
something  in  a whisper  to  Dawkins,  who  appeared  to  overrule 
it,  whatever  it  might  be,  and  finally  brought  him  over  to  his 
own  opinion. 

“ ‘ Come,  Cupples,’  said  Dawkins,  ‘the  affair  is  now  settled; 
to-morrow  a boat  will  be  in  waiting  for  you  opposite  Spike 
Island  to  convey  you  on  board  the  Semiramis,  where  every  step 
in  the  whole  business  shall  be  explained  to  you;  meanwhile,  you 
have  only  to  keep  your  own  counsel,  and  trust  the  secret  to  no 
one.’ 

“ ‘ Yes,  Cupples,’  said  the  Admiral,  ‘ we  rely  upon  you  for 
that,  so  good-night.’  As  he  spoke  he  placed  within  my  hands 
a crumpled  note  for  ten  pounds,  and,  squeezing  my  fingers,  de- 
parted, 

“ My  yarn  is  spinning  out  to  a far  greater  length  than  I in- 


184 


CHARLES  O’MALLEY. 


tended,  so  I’ll  try  and  shorten  it  a bit.  The  next  day  I went 
on  board  the  Semiramis,  where,  when  I appeared  upon  the  quar- 
ter-deck, I found  myself  an  object  of  some  interest.  The  report 
that  I was  the  man  about  to  command  the  ‘ Brian  ’ — that  was 
the  real  name  of  the  old  craft — had  caused  some  curiosity  among 
the  officers,  and  they  all  spoke  to  me  with  great  courtesy.  Af- 
ter waiting  a short  time,  I was  ordered  to  go  below,  where  the 
Admiral,  his  Flag-captain  Dawkins  and  the  others  were  seated. 
They  repeated  at  greater  length  the  conversation  of  the  night 
before,  and  finally  decided  that  I was  to  sail  in  three  weeks; 
for  although  the  old  schooner  was  sadly  damaged,  they  lost  no 
time,  but  had  her  already  high  in  dock  with  two  hundred  ship 
carpenters  at  work  upon  her. 

“I  do  not  shorten  sail  here  to  tell  you  what  reports  were 
circulated  about  Cove,  as  to  my  extraordinary  change  in  circum- 
stances, nor  how  I bore  my  altered  fortunes.  It  is  enough  that 
I say  that,  in  less  than  three  weeks  I weighed  anchor  and  stood 
out  to  sea  one  beautiful  morning  in  autumn  and  set  out  upon  my 
expedition. 

“I  have  already  told  you  something  of  the  craft.  Let  me 
complete  the  picture  by  informing  you  that,  before  twenty -four 
hours  passed c>ver,  I discovered  that  so  ungainly,  so  awkward, 
so  unmanageable  a vessel  never  was  put  to  sea;  in  light  winds 
she  scarcely  stirred,  or  moved  as  if  she  were  water-logged;  if  it 
came  to  blow  upon  the  quarter,  she  fell  off  from  her  helm  at  a 
fearful  rate;  in  wearing  she  endangered  every  spar  she  had,  and, 
when  you  put  her  in  stays,  when  half  round  she  would  fall  back, 
and  nearly  carry  away  every  stitch  of  canvas  with  the  shock. 
If  the  ship  was  bad,  the  crew  was  ten  times  worse.  What  Daw- 
kins said  turned  out  to  be  literally  true;  every  ill-conducted,  dis- 
orderly fellow  who  had  been  up  the  gangway  once  a week  or  so, 
every  unreclaimed  landsman  of  bad  character  and  no  seaman- 
ship, was  sent  on  board  of  us;  and,  in  fact,  except  that  there  was 
scarcely  any  discipline  and  no  restraint,  we  appeared  like  a float- 
ing penitentiary  of  convicted  felons. 

“ So  long  as  we  ran  down  channel  with  a slack  sea  and  fair 
wind,  so  long  all  went  on  tolerably  well;  to  be  sure,  they  only 
kept  watch  when  they  tired  below;  and  reeled  about  the  deck, 
went  down  below,  and  all  just  as  they  pleased,  and  treated  me 
with  no  manner  of  respect.  After  some  vain  efforts  to  repress 
their  excesses — vain,  for  I had  no  one  to  second  me — I appeared 
to  take  no  notice  of  their  misconduct,  and  contented  myself 
with  waiting  for  the  time  when,- my  dreary  voyage  over,  I should 
quit  the  command,  and  part  company  with  such  associates  for- 
ever. At  last,  however,  it  came  on  to  blow,  and  the  night 
we  passed  the  Lizard  was  indeed  a fearful  one.  As  morning 
broke,  a sea  running  mountains  high;  a wind  strong  from 
the  north-west,  was  hurrying  the  old  craft  along  at  a rate 
I believed  impossible.  I shall  not  stop  to  recount  the  fright- 
ful scene  of  anarchy,  confusion,  drunkenness,  and  insubor- 
dination which  our  crew  exhibited;  the  recollection  is  too  bad 
already,  and  I would  spare  you  and  myself  the  recital;  but, 
on  the  fourth  day  from  the  setting  in  of  tlie  gale,  as  we  ©n- 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


1S5 


tered  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  some  one  aloft  descried  a strange  sail 
to  windward,  bearing  down  as  if  in  pursuit  of  us.  Scarcely 
did  the  news  reach  the  deck,  when,  bad  as  it  was  before,  matters 
became  now  ten  times  worse,  some  resolved  to  give  themselves 
up,  if  the  chase  happened  to  be  French,  and  vowing  that  before 
surrendering,  the  spirit-room  should  be  forced,  and  every  man 
let  drink  as  he  pleased.  Others  proposed  if  there  was  anything 
like  equality  in  the  force, to  attack,  and  convert  the  captured 
vessel,  if  they  succeeded,  into  a slaver,  and  sail  at  once  for 
Africa.  Some  were  for  blowing  up  the  old  ‘ Brian  ’ with  all  on 
board;  and,  in  fact,  every  counsel  that  drunkenness,  insanity, 
and  crime  combined  could  suggest,  was  offered  and  descanted 
on.  Meanwhile  the  chase  gained  rapidly  upon  us,  and  before 
noon  we  discovered  her  to  be  a French  letter  of  marque,  with  four 
guns,  and  a long  brass  swivel  upon  the  poop- deck.  As  for  us, 
every  sheet  of  canvas  we  could  crowd  was  crammed  on,  but  in 
vain;  and,  as  we  labored  through  the  heavy  sea,  our  riotous 
crew  grew  every  moment  worse,  and,  sitting  down  sulkily  in 
groups  upon  the  deck,  declared  that,  come  what  might,  they 
would  neither  work  the  ship  nor  fight  her;  that  they  had  been 
sent  to  sea  in  a rotten  craft,  merely  to  effect  their  destruction, 
and  that  they  cared  little  for  the  disgrace  of  a flag  they  detested. 
Half  furious  with  the  taunting  sarcasm  I heard  on  every  side, 
and  nearly  mad  from  passion,  and  bewildered,  my  first  impulse 
was  to  rush  in  amongst  them  with  my  drawn  cutlass,  and,  ere,  I 
fell  their  victim,  take  heavy  vengeance  upon  the  ring- leaders, 
when  suddenly  a sharp,  booming  noise  came  thundering  along, 
and  a round  shot  went  flying  over  our  heads. 

“ ‘ Down  with  the  ensign;  strike  at  once,’  cried  eight  or  ten 
voices  together,  as  the  ball  whizzed  through  the  rigging.  Antic- 
ipating this,  and  resolving,  whatever  might  happen,  to  fight  her 
to  the  last,  I had  made  the  mate,  a stanch-hearted,  resolute 
fellow,  to  make  fast  the  signal  halyard  aloft,  so  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  any  one  on  deck  to  lower  the  bunting.  Bang  went 
another  gun,  and,  before  the  smoke  cleared  away,  a third;  which, 
truer  in  its  aim  than  the  rest,  went  clean  through  the  lower  part 
of  our  mainsail. 

“‘Steady  there,  boys,  and  clear  for  action,’ said  the  mate, 
‘ She’s  a French  smuggling  craft  that  will  sheer  off  when  we 
show  fight,  so  that  we  must  not  fire  a shot  till  she  comes  along- 
side.’ 

“ ‘ And  harkee,  lads,’  said  I,  taking  up  the  tone  of  encourage- 
ment he  spoke  with,  ‘ if  we  take  her,  I promise  to  claim  nothing 
of  the  prize.  Whatever  we  capture  you  shall  divide  amongst 
yourselves.’ 

“‘It’s  very  easy  to  divide  what  we  never  had,’  said  one; 
‘ nearly  as  easy  as  to  give  it,’ cried  another;  ‘I’ll  never  light 
match  or  draw  cutlass  in  the  cause,’  said  a third. 

“‘Surrender!’  ‘Strike  the  flag!’  ‘Down  with  the  colors!’ 
roared  several  voices  together. 

“ By  this  time  the  Frenchman  was  close  up,  and  ranging  his 
long  gun  to  sweep  our  decks;  his  crew  were  quite  perceptible, 
about  twenty  bronzed,  stout-looking  fellows,  stripped  to  the 


186  CHARLES  aMALLEY. 

waist,  and  carrying  pistols  in  broad,  flat  belts  slung  over  the 
shoulder. 

“ ‘ Come,  my  lads,’  said  I,  raising  my  voioe,  as  I drew  a pistol 
from  my  side  and  cocked  it,  ‘our  time  is  short  now;  I may  as 
well  tell  you  that  the  first  shot  that  strikes  us  amid-ship  blows 
up  the  whole  craft  and  every  man  on  board.  We  are  nothing 
less  than  a fireship,  destined  for  Brest  harbor,  to  blow  up  the 
French  fleet.  If  you  are  willing  to  make  an  effort  for  your 
lives,  follow  me.’ 

“ The  men  looked  aghast.  Whatever  recklessness,  crime  and 
drunkenness  had  given  them,  the  awful  feeling  of  inevitable 
death  at  once  repelled.  Short  as  was  the  time  for  reflection, 
they  felt  that  there  were  many  circumstances  to  encourage  the 
assertion;  the  nature  of  the  vessel,  her  riotous,  disorderly  crew, 
the  secret  nature  of  the  service,  aU  confirmed  it,  and  they  an- 
swered with  a shout  of  despairing  vengeance,  ‘ We’U  board  her; 
lead  us  on.’  As  the  cry  rose  up,  the  long  swivel  from  the  chase 
rung  sharply  in  our  ears,  and  a tremendous  discliarge  of  grape 
flew  through  our  rigging;  none  of  our  men,  however,  fell;  and, 
animated  now  with  the  desire  for  battle,  they  sprang  to  the  bin- 
nacle and  seized  their  arms. 

“ In  an  instant  the  whole  attack  became  a scene  of  excited 
bustle;  and  scarcely  was  the  ammunition  dealt  out  and  the 
boarding  party  drawn  up,  when  the  Frenchman  broached  to 
and  lashed  his  bowsprit  to  our  own. 

“ One  terrific  yell  rose  from  our  fellows,  as  they  sprung  from 
the  rigging  and  the  poop  upon  the  astonished  Frenchmen;  who 
thought  that  the  victory  was  already  their  own;  with  death  and 
ruin  behind,  their  only  hope  before,  they  dashed  forward  like 
madmen  to  the  fray. 

“ The  conflict  was  bloody  and  terrific,  though  not  a long  one; 
nearly  equal  in  number,  but  far  superior  in  personal  strength, 
and  stimulated  by  their  sense  of  danger,  our  fellows  mshed  on- 
ward carrying  all  before  them  to  tlie  quarter-deck.  Here  the 
Frenchmen  rallied,  and,  for  some  minutes,  had  rather  the  ad- 
vantage, until  the  mate,  turning  one  of  their  guns  against  them, 
prepared  to  sweep  them  down  in  a mass.  Then  it  was  that  they 
ceased  their  fire,  and  cried  out  for  quarter.  All,  save  their  cap-= 
tain,  a short,  thick-set  fellow,  with  a grisly  beard  and  mustache 
who,  seeing  his  men  fall  back,  turned  on  them  one  glance  of 
scowling  indignation,  and  rushing  forward,  clove  our  boatswain 
to  the  deck  with  one  blow.  Before  the  example  could  have  been 
followed,  he  lay  a bloody  corpse  upon  the  deck,  while  our  people, 
roused  to  madness  by  the  loss  of  a favorite  among  the  men, 
dashed  impetuously  forward,  and,  dealing  death  on  every  side, 
left  not  one  man  living  among  their  unresisting  enemies.  My 
story  is  soon  told  now.  We  brought  our  prize  safe  into  Malta, 
which  we  reached  in  five  days.  In  less  than  a week  our  men 
were  drafted  into  different  men-of-war  on  the  station.  I was 
appointed  a warrant  oflicer  in  the  Sheerwater,  forty-four  guns, 
and,  as  the  Admiral  opened  the  dispatch,  the  only  words  he 
spoke  puzzled  me  for  many  a day  after.’ 

“‘You  have  accomplished  your  orders  too  well,’  said  he; 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


18? 


that  privateer  is  but  a poor  compensation  for  the  whole  French 
navy.’ ’’ 

“ Well,”  inquired  Power,  and  did  you  never  hear  the  mean- 

ing of  the  words  ?” 

“ Yes,”  said  he,  ‘‘many  years  after  I found  out  that  our  dis- 
patches were  false  ones,  intended  to  have  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  the  French  and  mislead  them  as  to  Lord  Nelson’s  fleet,  which 
at  that  time  was  cruising  to  the  southward  to  catch  them.  This, 
of  course,  explained  what  fate  was  destined  for  us;  a French 
prison,  if  not  death;  and,  after  all,  either  was  fully  good  enough 
for  the  crew  that  sailed  in  the  old  Brian  A 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE  LAND. 

It  was  late  when  we  separated  for  the  night,  and  the  morning 
was  already  far  advanced  ere  I awoke;  the  monotonous  tramp 
overhead  showed  me  that  the  others  were  stirring,  and  I gently 
moved  the  shutter  of  the  narrow  window  beside  me  to  look 
out. 

The  sea,  slightly  rippled  upon  its  surface,  shone  like  a plate  of 
fretted  gold;  not  a wave,  not  a breaker  appeared;  but  the  rush- 
ing sound  close  by  showed  that  we  were  moving  fast  through 
the  water. 

“Always  calm,  hereabouts,”  said  a gruff  voice  on  deck,  which 
I soon  recognized  as  the  Skipper’s.  “No  sea  whatever.” 

“ I can  make  nothing  of  it,”  cried  out  Power,  from  the  fore- 
part of  the  vessel;  “ it  appears  to  me  all  cloud.” 

“No,  no,  sir,  believe  me,  it’s  no  fog-bank,  that  large,  dark 
mass  to  leeward  there;  that’s  Cintra.” 

“Land!”  cried  I,  springing  up,  and  rushing  upon  deck. 
“ Where,  Skipper;  where  is  the  land?” 

“ I say,  Charley,”,  said  Power,  “ I hope  you  n^an  to  adopt  a 
little  more  clothing  on  reaching  Lisbon;  for,  though  the  climate 
is  a warm  one ” 

“Never  mind,  O’Malley,”  said  the  Major.  “The  Portuguese 
will  only  be  flattered  by  the  attention,  if  you  land  as  you  are.” 

“Why,  how  so?” 

“ Surely,  you  remember  what  the  niggers  said  when  they  saw 
the  79th  Highlanders  landing  at  St.  Lucie.  They  had  never 
seen  a Scotch  regiment  before,  and  were  consequently  somewhat 
puzzled  at  the  costume,  till,  at  last,  one  more  cunning  than  the 
rest,  explained  it,  by  saying:  ‘ They  are  in  a such  hurry  to  kill 
the  poor  black  men,  they  came  away  without  their  breeches.’  ” 

“ Now,  what  say  you?”  cried  the  Skipper,  as  he  pointed  with 
his  telescope  to  a dark  blue  mass  in  the  distance.  “ See  there!” 

“Ay,  true  enough,  that’s  Cintra.” 

“ Then  we  shall  probably  be  in  the  Tagms  before  morning?” 

“ Before  midnight,  if  the  wind  holds,”  said  the  Skipper. 

We  breakfasted  on  deck,  beneath  an  awning;  the  vessel 
scarcely  seemed  to  move,  as  she  cut  her  way  through  the  calm 
water. 

The  misty  outline  of  the  coast  grew  gradually  more  defined, 


188 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


and  at  length  the  blue  mountains  could  be  seen,  at  first  but 
dimly;  but,  as  the  day  wore  on,  their  many-colored  hues  shone 
forth,  and  patches  of  green  verdure  dotted  with  sheep,  or  shel- 
tered by  dark  foliage,  met  the  eye.  The  bulwarks  were  crowded 
with  anxious  faces;  each  looked  pointedly  toward  the  shore,  and 
many  a stout  heart  beat  high  as  the  land  drew  near,  fated  to 
cover  with  its  earth  more  than  one  amongst  us. 

‘‘  And  that’s  Portingale,  Mister  Charles,”  said  a voice  behind 
me.  I turned  and  saw  my  man  Mike  as,  with  anxious  joy,  he 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  shore. 

“They  tell  me  it’s  a beautiful  place,  with  wine  for  nothing 
and  spirits  for  less.  Isn’t  it  a pity  they  won’t  be  raisonable  and 
make  peace  with  us?” 

“ Why,  my  good  fellow,  we  are  excellent  friends;  it’s  the 
French  who  want  to  beat  us  all.” 

‘ ‘ Upon  my  conscience,  that’s  not  right.  There’s  an  ould  saying 
in  Connaught — ^it’s  not  fair  for  one  to  fall  upon  twenty.  Sergeant 
Haggerty  says  that  I’ll  see  none  of  the  divarsion  at  all.” 

“ I don’t  well  understand ” 

“ He  does  be  telling  me  that,  as  I’m  only  your  footboy,  he’ll 
send  me  away  to  the  rear,  where  there’s  nothing  but  wounded, 
and  wagons,  and  women.” 

“ I believe  the  sergeant  is  right  there;  but,  after  all,  Mike,  it’s 
a safe  place.” 

“ Ah!  then,  musha,  for  the  safety;  I don’t  think  much  of  it; 
sure  they  might  circumvint  us.  And,  av  it  wasn’t  displazing 
to  you,  I’d  rather  list.” 

“Well,  I’ve  no  objection,  Mickey;  would  you  like  to  join  my 
regiment  ?” 

“ By  coorse,  your  honor.  I’d  like  to  be  near  yourself;  becase, 
too,  if  anything  happens  to  you — the  Lord  be  betune  us  and 
harm,”  here  he  crossed  himself  piously — “ sure  I’d  like  to  be  able 
to  tell  the  master  how  you  died;  and  sure,  there’s  Masther  Con- 
sidine — God  pardon  him — he’ll  be  beating  my  brains  out  av  I 
couldn’t  explain  it  all.” 

“ Well,  Mike,  I’ll  speak  to  some,  of  my  friends  here  about  you 
and  we’ll  settle  it  all  properly;  here’s  the  Doctor.” 

“ Arrah,  Mister  Charles,  don’t  mind  him;  he’s  a poor  crayture 
entirely;  devil  a thing  he  knows.” 

“ Why,  what  do  you  mean,  man?  he’s  physician  to  the  forces.” 

“ Oh,  by  gorra,  and  so  he  may  be,”  said  Mike,  with  a toss  of 
his  head;  “ those  army  docthers  isn’t  worth  their  salt.  It’s  truth 
I’m  telling  you;  sure,  didn’t  he  come  to  see  me  when  I was  sick 
below  in  the  hould  ? 

‘ ‘ ‘ How  do  you  feel  ?’  says  he. 

“ ‘ Terrible  dhry  in  the  mouth.’ 

‘ ‘ ‘ But  your  bones,’  says  he,  ‘ how’s  them  ?’ 

“ ‘ As  if  cripples  were  kicking  me,’  says  I. 

“ Well,  with  that  he  went  away  and  brought  back  two  pow- 
ders. 

“ ‘ Take  them,’  says  he,  ‘and  ye’ll  be  cured  in  no  time.’ 

“ ‘ What’s  them?’  says  I. 

They’re  emetics,’ says  he. 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY.  ISh 

" ^ Blood  and  ages,’  says  I,  ‘are  they?’ 

‘ Devil  a lie,’  says  he;  ‘ take  them  immediately.’ 

“ And  I tuk  them — and,  would  you  believe  me,  Mister  Charles  ? 
—it’s  thruth  I’m  telling  you — devil  a one  o’  them  would  stay  on 
my  stomach.  So  you  see  what  a docther  he  is!” 

I could  not  help  smiling  at  Mike’s  ideas  of  mediciue,  as  I turned 
away  to  talk  to  the  Major,  wlio  was  busily  engaged  beside  me. 
His  occupation  consisted  in  furbishing  up  a very  tarnished  and 
faded  uniform,  whose  white  seams  and  threadbare  lace  be- 
tokened many  years  of  service. 

‘•Getting  up  our  traps,  you  see,  O’Malley,”  said  he,  as  he 
looked  with  no  small  pride  at  the  faded  glories  of  his  old  vest- 
ment; “ astonish  them  at  Lisbon,  we  flatter  ourselves.  Isay, 
Power,  what  a bad  style  of  dress  they’ve  got  into  latterly,  with 
their  tight  waists  and  strapped  trousers— nothing  free,  nothing 
easy,  nothing  degage  about  it.  When  in  a campaign  a man 
ought  to  be  able  to  stow  prog  for  twenty-four  hours  about  his 
person,  and  no  one  the  wiser.  A very  good  rule,  I assure  you; 
though  sometimes  it  leads  to  awkward  results.  At  Vimeira  I got 
into  a sad  scrape  that  way.  Old  Sir  Harry,  that  commanded 
there,  sent  for  the  sick  return.  I was^at  dinner  when  the  orderly 
came;  so  I packed  up  the  eatables  about  me,  and  rode  off.  Just, 
however,  as  I came  to  the  quarters,  my  horse  stumbled  and 
threw  me  slap  on  my  head. 

“ ‘ Is  he  killed  ?’  said  Sir  Harry. 

“ ‘ Only  stunned,  your  Excellency,’  said  some  one. 

‘ Then  he’ll  come  to,  I suppose.  Look  for  the  papers  in  his 
pocket.’ 

“ So  they  turned  me  on  my  back,  and  plunged  a hand  into  my 
side  pocket,  but,  the  devil  take  it,  they  pulled  out  a roast  hen. 
Well,  the  laugh  was  scarcely  over  at  this,  when  another  fellow 
dived  into  my  coat  behind,  and  lugged  out  three  sausages;  and 
so  they  went  on,  till  the  ground  was  covered  with  ham,  pigeon 
pie,  veal  kidney,  and  potatoes,  and  the  only  thing  like  a paper 
was  a mess  roll  of  the  4th,  with  a droll  song  about  Sir  Harry, 
written  in  pencil  on  the  back  of  it.  Devil  of  a bad  affair  for 
me;  I was  nearly  broke  for  it;  but  they  only  reprimanded  me  a 
little;  and  I was  afterward  attached  to  the  victualing  depart- 
ment.” 

What  an  anxious  thing  is  the  last  day  of  a voyage!  how  slowly 
creep  the  hours,  teeming  with  memories  of  the  past  and  expecta- 
tions of  the  future! 

Every  plan,  every  well -devised  expedient  to  cheat  the  long 
and  weary  days,  is  at  once  abandoned;  the  chess-board  and  the 
new  novel  are  alike  forgotten;  and  the  very  quarter-deck  walk, 
with  its  merry  gossip  and  careless  chit-chat,  becomes  distasteful. 
One  blue  and  misty  mountain,  one  faint  outline  of  the  far-off 
shore,  has  dispelled  all  thought  of  these,  and,  with  straining  eye 
and  anxious  heart  we  watch  for  land. 

As  the  day  wears  on  apace,  the  excitement  increases;  the  faint 
and  shadowy  forms  of  distant  objects  grow  gradually  clearer. 
Where  before  some  tall  and  misty  mountain  peak  was  seen,  we 
now  descry  patches  of  deepest  blue  and  somber  olive;  the  mellow 


190 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


corn  and  the  waving  woods,  the  village  spire  and  the  lowly  cot, 
come  out  of  the  landscape;  and,  like  some  well-remembered 
voice,  they  speak  of  home.  The  objects  we  have  seen,  the  sounds 
we  have  heard  a hundred  times  before  without  interest,  become 
to  us  now  things  that  stir  the  heart. 

For  a time  the  bright  glare  of  the  noonday  sun  dazzles  the 
view,  and  renders  indistinct  the  prospect;  but,  as  evening  falls, 
once  more  is  all  fair,  and  bright,  and  rich  before  us.  Rocked  by 
the  long  and  rolling  swell,  I lay  beside  the  bowsprit,  watching 
the  shore  birds  that  came  to  rest  upon  the  rigging,  or  following 
some  long  and  tangled  sea-weed  as  it  floated  by,  my  thoughts 
now  wandering  back  to  the  brown  hills  and  the  broad  river  of 
my  early  home — now  straying  off  in  dream  fancies  of  the  future. 

How  flat  and  unprofitable  does  all  ambition  seem  at  such 
moments  as  these;  how  valueless,  how  poor,  in  our  estimation, 
these  worldly  distinctions  we  have  so  often  longed  and  thirsted 
for,  as  with  lowly  heart  and  simple  spirit  we  watch  each  hum- 
ble cottage,  weaving  to  ourselves  some  story  of  its  inmates  as 
we  pass! 

The  night  at  length  closed  in,  but  it  was  a bright  and  starry 
one — lending  to  the  landscape  a hue  of  somber  shadow,  while  the 
outline  of  the  objects  w^ere  still  sharp  and  distinct  as  before. 
One  solitary  star  twinkled  near  the  horizon.  I watched  it  as,  at 
intervals  disappearing,  it  would  again  shine  out,  marking  the 
calm  sea  with  a tall  pillar  of  light. 

“ Come  down,  Mr.  O’Malley,”  cried  the  Skipper’s  well-known 
voice;  come  down  below,  and  join  us  in  a parting  glass — that’s 
the  Lisbon  light  to  the  leeward,  and  before  two  hours  we  drop 
our  anchor  in  the  Tagus.” 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

MAJOR  MONSOON. 

Of  my  traveling  companions,  I have  already  told  my  readers 
something.  Power  is  now  an  old  acquaintance;  to  Sparks  I 
have  already  presented  them;  of  the  Adjutant  they  are  not  en- 
tirely ignorant;  and  it,  therefore,  only  remains  for  me  to  intro- 
duce to  their  notice  Major  Monsoon.  I should  have  some  scruple 
for  the  digression  which  this  occasions  in  my  narrative,  w^ere  it 
not  that  with  the  worthy  Major  I was  destined  to  meet  subsequent- 
ly, and  indeed  served  under  his  orders  for  some  months  in  the 
Peninsula.  When  Major  Monsoon  had  entered  the  army,  or  in 
what  precise  capacity,  I never  yet  met  the  man  who  could  tell. 
There  were  traditionary  accounts  of  his  having  served  in  the 
East  Indies  and  in  Canada,  in  times  long  past.  His  own  peculiar 
reminiscences  extended  to  nearly  every  regiment  in  the  service, 
“ horse,  foot,  and  dragoons.”  There  was  not  a clime  he  had  not 
basked  in;  not  an  engagement  he  had  not  witnessed.  His  mem- 
ory, or,  if  you  will,  his  invention,  was  never  at  a fault;  and  from 
the  siege  of  Seringapatain  to  the  battle  of  Corunna  it  was  per- 
fect; besides  this,  he  possessed  a mind  retentive  of  even  the 
most  trifling  details  of  his  profession ; from  the  formation  of  a 
regiment  to  the  introduction  of  a new  button,  from  the  laying 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


m 

down  of  a parallel  to  the  price  of  a camp-kettle,  he  knew  it  all. 
To  be  Bure  he  had  served  in  the  commissary-generars  depart- 
ment for  a number  of  years,  and  nothing  instils  such  habits  as 
this. 

The  commissaries  are  to  the  army  what  the  special  pleaders 
are  to  the  bar,”  observed  my  friend  Power — dry  dogs;  not  over 
creditable  on  the  whole,  but  devilish  useful.” 

The  Major  had  begun  life  a two-bottle  man,  but,  by  a studious 
cultivation  of  his  natural  gifts,  and  a steady  determination  to 
succeed,  he  had,  at  the  time  I knew  him,  attained  to  his  fifth. 
It  need  not  be  wondered  at,  ithen,  that  his  countenance  bore 
some  traces  of  his  habits.  It  was  of  a deep,  sun-set  purple, 
which,  becoming  tropical  at  the  tip  of  the  nose,  verged  almost 
to  a plum  color;  his  mouth  was  large,  thick-lipped,  and  good- 
humored;  his  voice  rich,  mellow,  and  racy,  and  contributed, 
with  the  aid  of  a certain  dry,  chuckling  laugh,  greatly  to  in- 
crease the  effect  of  the  stories  which  he  was  ever  ready  to  re- 
count; and,  as  they  most  frequently  bore  in  some  degree  against 
some  of  what  he  called  his  little  failings,  they  were  ever  well 
received,  no  man  being  so  popular  with  the  world  as  he  who 
fiatters  its  vanity  at  his  own  expense.  To  do  this,  the  Major 
was  ever  ready,  but  at  no  time  more  so  than  when  the  evening 
wore  late,  and  the  last  bottle  of  his  series  seemed  to  imi^ly  that 
any  caution  regarding  the  nature  of  his  communication  was  per- 
fectly unnecessary.  Indeed,  from  the  commencement  of  his 
evening  to  the  close,  he  seemed  to  pass  through  a number  of 
mental  changes,  all  in  a manner  preparing  him  for  this  final 
consummation,  when  he  confessed  anything,  and  everything; 
and,  so  well-regulated  had  these  stages  become,  that  a friend 
dropping  in  upon  him  suddenly  could  at  once  pronounce  from 
the  tone  of  his  conversation  upon  what  precise  bottle  the  Major 
was  then  engaged. 

Thus,  in  the  outset,  he  was  gastronomic;  discussed  the  dinner 
from  the  soup  to  the  stilton;  criticised  the  cutlets;  pronounced 
upon  the  merits  of  the  mutton;  and  threw  out  certain  vague 
hints  that  he  would  one  day  astonish  the  world  by  a little  volume 
upon  cookery. 

With  bottle  No.  2 he  took  leave  of  the  cuisine,  and  opened 
his  battery  upon  the  wine.  Bordeaux,  burgundy,  hock,  and 
hermitage,  all  passed  in  review  before  him,  their  flavor  discussed, 
their  treatment  descanted  upon,  their  virtues  extolled;  from 
humble  port  to  imperial  tokay,  he  was  thoroughly  conversant 
with  all;  and  not  a vintage  escaped  as  to  when  the  sun  had  suf- 
fered eclipse  or  when  a comet  had  wagged  his  tail  over  it. 

With  No.  3 he  became  pipe-clay;  talked  army  list  and  eighteen 
maneuvers;  lamented  the  various  changes  in  equipments  winch 
modem  innovation  liad  introduced;  and  feared  tlie  loss  of  pig- 
tails might  sap  tlie  military  s])irit  of  the  nation. 

With  No.  4 his  anecdotic  powers  came  into  play;  he  recounted 
various  incidents  of  tlie  war,  with  lus  own  individual  advent 
ures  and  experience,  told  with  an  lionest  naivete  that  proved  per- 
sonal vanity;  indeed,  self-respect  never  marred  the  interest  of 
the  narrative;  besides,  as  he  had  ever  regarded  a campaign  some* 


m 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


thing  in  the  light  of  a foray,  and  esteemed  war  as  little  else  than 
a pillage  excursion,  his  sentiments  were  singularly  amusing. 

With  his  last  bottle  those  feelings  that  seemed  inevitably 
connected  with  whatever  is  last,  appeared  to  steal  over  him;  a 
tinge  of  sadness,  for  pleasures  fast  passing  and  nearly  passed,  a 
kind  of  retrospective  glance  at  the  fallacy  of  all  our  earthly  en- 
joyments, inseasibly  suggesting  moral  and  edifying  reflections, 
led  him  by  degrees  to  confess  that  he  was  not  quite  satisfied 
with  himself,  though  “not  very  bad  for  a commissary;”  and, 
finally,  as  the  decanter  waxed  low,  he  would  interlard  his  medi- 
tations by  passages  of  Scripture,  singularly  perverted,  by  his 
misconception,  from  their  true  meaning,  and  alternately  throw- 
ing out  prospect  of  censure  or  approval.  Such  was  Major 
Monsoon;  and,  to  conclude  in  his  own  words  this  brief  sketch, 
he  “ would  have  been  an  excellent  officer  if  Providence  had  not 
made  him  such  a confounded  drunken  old  scoundrel.” 

“Now,  then,  for  the  King  of  Spain’s  story.  Out  with  it,  old 
boy;  we  are  all  good  men  and  true  here,”  cried  Power,  as  we 
slowly  came  along  upon  the  tide  up  the  Tagus,  “ so  you’ve  noth- 
ing to  fear.” 

“Upon  my  life,”  replied  the  Major,  “I  don’t  half  like  the 
tone  of  our  conversation.  There  is  a certain  freedom  young 
men  affect  nowadays,  regarding  morals,  that  is  not  at  all  to  my 
taste.  When  I was  five  or  six-and-twenty ” 

“ You  were  the  greatest  scamp  in  the  service,”  said  Power. 

“ Fie,  fie,  Fred.  If  I was  a little  wild  or  so  ” — here  the  Major’s 
eyes  twinkled  maliciously — “it  was  the  ladies  that  spoiled  me; 
I was  always  rather  something  of  a favorite,  just  like  our  friend 
Sparks  there.  Not  that  we  fared  very  much  alike  in  our  little 
adventures;  for,  somehow,  I believe  I was  generally  in  fault  in 
most  of  mine,  as  many  a good  man  and  many  an  excellent  man 
has  been  before.”  Here  his  voice  dropped  into  a moralizing 
key,  as  he  added;  “ David,  you  know,  didn’t  behave  well  to  old 
Uriah.  Upon  my  life  he  did  not,  and  he  was  a very  respectable 
man.” 

“The  King  of  Spain’s  sherry — the  sherry,”  cried  I,  fearing 
that  the  Major’s  digression  might  lose  us  a good  story. 

“You  shall  not  have  a drop  of  it,”  replied  the  Major. 

“ But  the  story.  Major,  the  story.” 

“Nor  the  story  either.” 

“ What,”  said  Power,  “ will  you  break  faith  with  us?” 

“ There’s  none  to  be  kept  with  reprobates  like  you.  Fill  my 
glass.” 

“ Hold  there!  stop!”  cried  Power.  “Not  a spoonful  till  he 
redeems  his  pledge.’’ 

“ Well,  then,  if  you  must  have  a story — for  most  assuredly  1 
must  drink — I have  no  objection  to  give  you  a leaf  from  my 
early  reminiscences,  and,  in  compliment  to  Sparks  there,  my 
tale  shall  be  of  love.” 

“ I dinna  like  to  lose  the  King’s  story.  I hae  my  thoughts  it 
was  na  a bad  ane.” 

“ Nor  I neither.  Doctor,  but ” 

“ Come,  come,  you  shall  have  that,  too,  the  first  night  we  meet 


CHABLES  O^MALLEY. 


193 


in  a bivouac;  and  as  I fear  the  time  may  not  be  very  far  distant, 
don’t  be  impatient;  besides,  a love  story ” 

‘‘  Quite  true,”  said  Power;  “ a love  story  claims  precedence; 
place  aux  dames.  There’s  a bumper  for  you,  old  Wickedness; 
so  go  along.  ” 

The  Major  cleared  off  his  glass,  refilled  it,  sipped  twice,  and 
ogled  it  as  though  he  would  have  no  particular  objection  to  sip 
once  more,  took  a long  pinch  of  snuff  from  a box  nearly  as  long 
as,  and  something  of  the  shape  of,  a child’s  coffin;  looked  around 
to  see  that  we  were  all  attention,  and  thus  began: 

‘‘When  I have  been  in  a moralizing  mood,  as  I very  fre- 
quently am  about  this  hour  in  the  morning,  I have  often  felt 
surprised  by  what  little,  trivial,  and  insignificant  circumstances 
our  lot  in  life  seems  to  be  cast;  I mean,  especially,  as  regards 
the  fair  sex.  You  are  prospering,  as  it  were,  to-day;  to-morrow 
a new  cut  of  your  wliiskers — a novel  tie  of  your  cravat,  mars 
your  destiny  and  spoils  your  future  varium  et  mutabile,  as 
Horace  has  it.  On  the  other  hand,  some  equally  slight  circum- 
stances will  do  what  all  your  ingenuity  may  have  failed  to  ef- 
fect. I knew  a fellow  who  married  the  greatest  fortune  in 
Bath,  from  the  mere  habit  he  had  of  squeezing  one’s  hand. 
The  lady  in  question  thought  it  particular,  looked  conscious, 
and  all  that;  he  followed  up  the  blow;  and,  in  a word,  they 
were  married  in  a week.  So  a friend  of  mine,  who  could  not 
help  winking  his  left  eye,  once  opened  a flirtation  with  a lively 
widow,  which  cost  him  a special  license  and  a settlement.  In 
fact,  you  are  never  safe.  They  are  like  the  guerillas,  and  they 
pick  you  off  when  you  least  expect  it,  and  when  you  think  there 
is  nothing  to  fear.  Therefore,  as  young  fellows  beginning  life, 
I would  caution  you.  On  this  head  you  can  never  be  too  cir- 
cumspect. Do  you  know,  I was  once  nearly  caught  by  so  slight 
a habit  as  sitting  thus,  with  my  legs  across  ?” 

Here  the  Major  rested  his  right  foot  on  his  left  knee  in  ih 
lustration,  and  continued: 

“We  were  quartered  in  Jamaica.  I had  not  long  joined, 
and  was  about  as  rawj  a young  gentleman  as  you  could  see; 
the  only  very  clear  ideas  in  my  head  being,  that  we  were  mon- 
strous fine  fellows  in  the  50th,  and  that  the  planters’  daughters 
were  deplorably  in  love  with  us.  Not  that  I was  much  wrong 
on  either  side.  For  brandy  and  water,  sangaree,  Manilla  cigars, 
and  the  ladies  of  color,  I’d'  have  backed  the  corps  against  the 
service.  Proof  was,  of  eighteen,  only  two  ever  left  the  island; 
for  what  with  the  seductions  of  the  coffee  plantations,  the  sugar 
canes,  the  new  rum,  the  brown  skins,  the  rainy  season,  and  the 
yellow  fever,  most  of  us  settled  there. 

“It’s  very  hard  to  leave  the  West  Indies,  if  once  you  have 
been  quartered  there.” 

“ fSo  I have  heard,”  said  Power. 

“ In  fine,  if  you  don’t  knock  under  to  the  climate,  you  become 
soon  totally  unfit  for  living  anywhere  else.  Preserved  ginger, 
yams,  flannel  jackets  and  grog  won’t  bear  exportation;  and  the 
free  and  easy  chuck  under  the  chin,  cherishing,  waist-pressing 
kind  of  a way  we  get  with  the  ladies  would  be  quite  misunder 


194  CHARLES  HM ALLEY, 

stood  in  less  favored  regions,  and  lead  to  very  unpleasant  con- 
sec  piences. 

“ It  is  a curious  fact  how  much  climate  has  to  do  with  love- 
making.  In  our  cold  country  the  progress  is  lamentably  slow; 
fogs,  east  winds,  sl<?et  storms,  and  cutting  March  weather,  nip 
ma-ny  a budding  flirtation;  whereas  warm  sunny  days  and  bright 
moonlight  nights,  with  genial  air  and  balmy  zephyrs,  open  the 
heart  like  the  cup  of  a camellia,  and  let  us  drink  in  the  soft  dew 
of ” 

“ Devilish  poetical  that,”  said  Power,  evolving  a long  blue  line 
of  smoke  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

“ Isn’t  it,  though,”  said  the  Major,  smiling  graciously.  ‘‘  ’Pon 
my  life,  I thought  so  myself.  Where  was  I 

“ Out  of  my  latitude  altogether,”  said  the  poor  Skipper,  who 
often  found  it  hard  to  follow  the  thread  of  a story. 

“Yes,  I remember.  I was  remarking  that  sangaree,  and  cali- 
pash mangoes,  and  Guava  jelly,  dispose  the  heart  to  love,  and 
so  they  do.  I was  not  more  than  six  weeks  in  Jamaica  when  I 
felt  it  myself.  Now,  it  was  a very  dangerous  symptom,  if  you 
had  it  strong  in  you,  for  this  reason.  Our  Colonel,  the  most 
cross-grained  old  crabstick  that  ever  breathed,  happened  him- 
self to  be  taken  in  when  young,  and  resolving,  like  the  fox  who 
lost  his  tail,  and  said  it  was  not  the  fashion  to  wear  one,  to  pre- 
tend he  did  this  thing  for  fun,  resolved  to  make  every  fellow 
marry  upon  the  slightest  provocation.  Begad,  you  might  as 
well  enter  a powder  magazine  with  a branch  of  candles  in  your 
hand,  as  to  go  into  society  in  the  island  with  a leaning  toward 
the  fair  sex.  Very  hard  this  was  for  me  particularly;  for,  like 
poor  Sparks  there,  ray  weakness  was  ever  for  the  petticoats.  I 
had  besides  no  petty,  contemptible  prejudices  as  to  nation,  habits, 
language,  color,  or  complexion;  black,  brown,  or  fair,  from  the 
Muscovite  to  the  Malabar,  from  the  voluptuous  emhonpomt  of 
the  Adjutant’s  widow — don’t  be  angry,  old  boy— to  the  fairy 
form  of  Isabella  herself,  I loved  them  all  round.  But  were  I to 
give  a preference  anywhere,  I should  certainly  do  so  to  the  West 
Indies,  if  it  were  only  for  the  sake  of  the  planters’  daughters.  I 
say  it  fearlessly,  these  colonies  are  the  brightest  jewels  in  the 
crown.  Let’s  drink  their  health,  for  I’m  as  husky  as  a lime- 
kiln.” 

This  ceremony  being  performed  with  suitable  enthusiasm,  the 
Major  cried  out;  “ Another  cheer  for  Polly  Hackett,  the  sweet- 
est girl  in  Jamaica.  By  Jove,  Power,  if  you  only  saw  her  as  I 
did,  flve-and-forty  years  ago,  with  eyes  as  black  as  jet,  twink- 
ling, ogling,  leering,  teasing,  and  imploring  all  at  once,  do  you 
mind,  and  a mouthful  of  downright  pearls  pouting  and  smiling 
at  you,  why,  man,  you’d  have  proposed  for  her  in  the  flrst  half 
hour,  and  shot  yourself  the  next,  when  she  refused  you.  She 
was,  indeed,  a perfect  little  beauty,  rayther  dark,  to  be  sure;  a 
little  upon  the  rosewood  tinge,  but  beautifully  polished,  and  a 
very  nice  piece  of  furniture  for  a cottage  orne,  as  the  French 
call  it.  Alas,  alas!  how  these  vanities  do  catch  hold  of  us!  My 
recollections  have  made  me  quite  feverish  and  thirsty;  is  there 
any  cold  punch  in  the  bowl?  Thank  you,  O’Malley,  that  will 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


195 


do — merely  to  touch  my  lips.  Well,  well,  it’s  all  passed  and 
gone  now.  But  I was  very  fond  of  Polly  Hackett,  and  she  was 
of  me.  We  used  to  take  our  little  evening  walks  together 
through  the  coffee  plantation;  very  romantic  little  strolls  they 
were;  she  in  white  muslin  with  a bine  sash  and  blue  shoes, 
I in  a flannel  jacket  and  trousers,  straw  hat  and  cravat;  a Vir- 
ginia cigar  as  long  as  a walking  stick  in  my  mouth,  puffing  and 
courting  between  times;  then  we’d  take  a turn  to  the  refining 
house,  look  in  at  the  big  boilers,  quiz  the  niggers,  and  come  back 
toTwangberry  Moss  to  supper,  where  old  Hackett,  the  father, 

?>orted  a glorious  table  at  eleven  o’clock.  Great  feeding  it  w^as. 

ou  were  always  sure  of  a preserved  monkey,  a baked  land 
crab,  or  some  such  delicacy.  And  such  Madeira!  it  makes  me 
dry  to  think  it! 

“Talk  of  West  India  slavery,  indeed!  It’s  the  only  land  of 
liberty.  There  is  nothing  to  compare  with  the  perfect  free-and- 
easy,  devil-may-care-kind*  of- a-take-y ourself  w^ay  that  every  one 
has  there.  If  it  would  be  any  peculiar  comfort  for  you  to  sit  in 
the  saddle  of  mutton,  and  put  your  legs  into  a soup  tureen  at  din- 
ner, there  would  be  found  very  few  to  object  to  it.  There  is  no 
nonsense  of  any  kind  about  etiquette.  You  eat,  drink,  and  are 
merry,  or,  if  you  prefer,  are  sad;  just  as  you  please.  You 
may  wear  uniform,  or  you  may  not;  it’s  your  own  affair,  and, 
consequently,  it  may  be  imagined  how  insensibly  such  privileges 
gain  upon  one,  and  how  very  reluctant  we  become  ever  to  resign 
or  abandon  them. 

“I  was  the  man  to  appreciate  it  all.  The  whole  course  of 
proceeding  seemed  to  have  been  invented  for  my  peculiar  con- 
venience, and  not  a man  in  the  island  enjoyed  a more  luxurious 
existence  than  myself,  not  knowing  all  the  while  how  dearly  I 
was  destined  to  pay  for  my  little  comforts.  Among  my  plenary 
after-dinner  indulgences  I had  contracted  an  inveterate  habit  of 
sitting  cross-legged,  as  I showed  you.  Now,  this  was  become  a 
perfect  necessity  of  existence  to  me.  I could  have  dispensed 
with  cheese,  with  my  glass  of  port,  my  pickled  mango,  my  olive, 
my  anchovy  toast,  my  nutshell  of  curacoa,  but  not  my  favorite 
lounge.  You  may  smile;  but  I’ve  read  of  a man  who  could 
never  dance  except  in  the  room  with  an  old  hair -brush.  Now 
I’m  certain  my  stomach  would  not  digest  if  my  legs  were  per- 
pendicular. i don’t  mean  to  defend  the  thing.  The  attitude 
was  not  graceful;  it  was  not  imposing;  but  it  suited  me  some- 
how, and  I liked  it. 

“ From  what  I have  already  mentioned,  you  may  suppose  that 
West  India  habits  exercised  but  little  control  over  my  favorite 
practice,  which  I indulged  in  every  evening  of  my  life. 
Well,  one  day  old  Hackett  gave  us  a great  blow-out — a dinner 
of  two-and-twenty  souls;  six  days’  notice;  turtle  from  St.  Lucie, 
guinea  fowl,  claret  of  the  year  forty,  Madeira  a discretion,  and 
all  that.  Very  well  done,  the  whole  thing;  nothing  wrong, 
nothing  wanting.  As  for  me,  I was  in  great  feather.  I took 
Polly  in  to  dinner,  greatly  to  the  discomfiture  of  old  Belson,  our 
Major,  who  was  making  up  in  that  quarter;  for,  you  must  know, 
she  was  an  only  daughter,  and  had  a very  nice  thing  of  it  in 


196 


CHARLES  OAALLET. 


molasses  and  niggers.  The  papa  preferred  the  Major,  but  Polly  ’ 
looked  sweetly  upon  me.  Well,  down  we  went,  and  really  a 
most  excellent  feed  we  had.  Now,  I must  mention  here  that 
Polly  had  a favorite  Blenheim  spaniel  the  old  fellow  detested. 
It  was  alw^ays  tripping  him  up  and  snarling  at  him;  for  it  was, 
except  to  herself,  a beast  of  rather  vicious  inclinations.  With 
a true  Jamaica  taste,  it  was  her  pleasure  to  bring  the  animal  ah 
ways  into  the  dinner-room,  where,  if  papa  discovered  him,  there 
was  sure  to  be  a row.  Servants  sent  in  one  direction  to  hunt 
him  out;  others  endeavoring  to  hide  him,  and  so  on.  In  fact,  a 
tremendous  hubbub  always  followed  his  introduction,  and  ac- 
companied bis  exit;  upon  which  occasions  I invariably  exercised 
my  gallantry  by  protecting  the  beast,  although  I hated  him  like 
the  devil  all  the  time. 

“To  return  to  our  dinner.  After  two  mortal  hours  of  hard 
eating,  the  pace  began  to  slacken;  and,  as  evening  closed  in,  a 
sense  of  peaceful  repose  seemed  to  descend  upon  our  labors. 
Pastilles  shed  an  aromatic  vapor  through  the  room.  The  well- 
iced  decanters  went  with  measured  pace  along;  conversation, 
subdued  to  the  meridian  of  after-dinner  comfort,  just  murmured; 
the  open  jalousies  displayed  upon  the  broad  veranda  the  orange 
tree,  in  full  blossom,  slightly  stirring  with  the  cool  sea-breeze.” 

‘ And  the  piece  of  white  muslin  beside  you,  what  of  her?” 

“Looked  twenty  times  more  bewitching  than  ever.  Well,  it 
was  just  the  hour  when,  opening  the  last  two  buttons  of  your 
white  waistcoat  (remember  we  were  in  Jamaica),  you  stretch 
your  legs  to  the  full  extent,  throw  your  arms  carelessly  over  the 
back  of  your  chair,  look  contemplatively  toward  the  ceiling, 
and  wonder,  within  yourself,  why  it  is  not  all  after  dinner  in 
this  same  world  of  ours.  Such,  at  least,  were  my  reflections  as 
I assumed  my  attitude  of  supreme  comfort,  and  inwardly  ejacu- 
lated a health  to  Sneyd  and  Barton.  Just  at  this  moment  I 
heard  Polly’s  voice  gently  whisper:  ‘ Isn’t  he  a love  ? isn’t  he  a 
darling  ?’  ‘ Zounds,’  thought  I,  as  a pang  of  jealousy  shot  through 
my  heart,  ‘ is  it  the  Major  she  means  ?’  for  old  Belson,  with  his 
bag  wig  and  rouged  cheeks,  was  seated  on  the  other  side  of  her. 

“ ‘ What  a dear  old  thing  it  is!’  said  Polly. 

“ ‘ Worse  and  worse,’  said  I;  ‘it  must  be  him.’ 

“ ‘I  do  so  love  his  muzzy  face.’ 

“ ‘ It  is  him,’  said  I,  throwing  off  a bumper,  and  almost  boil- 
ing over  with  passion  at  the  moment. 

“ ‘ I wish  I could  take  one  look  at  him,’  said  she,  laying  down 
her  head  as  she  spoke. 

“The  Major  whispered  something  in  her  ear,  to  which  she  re- 
plied: 

“ ‘ Oh!  I dare  not:  papa  will  see  me  at  once.’ 

“ ‘Don’t  be  afraid,  madam,’  said  I,  fiercely;  ‘ your  father  per- 
fectly approves  of  your  taste.’ 

“ ‘ Are  you  sure  of  it?’  said  she,  giving  me  such  a look! 

“ ‘ I know  it,’  said  I,  struggling  violently  with  my  agitation. 

“ The  Major  leaned. over  as  if  to  touch  her  hand  beneath  the 
cloth.  I almost  sprang  from  my  chair,  when  Polly,  in  her  sweet- 
est accents,  said: 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


197 


‘‘  * You  must  be  patient,  dear  thing,  or  you  may  be  found  out> 
and  then  there  will  be  such  a piece  of  work.  Though  I’m  sure 
Major,  you  will  not  betray  me.’  The  Major  smiled  till  he 
cracked  the  paint  upon  his  cheeks.  ‘ And  I’m  sure  that  Mr. 
Monsoon ’ 

‘‘  ‘You  may  rely  upon  me,’  said  I,  half  sneeringly. 

“ The  Major  and  I exchanged  glances  of  defiance,  while  Polly 
continued: 

‘‘‘Now,  come,  don’t  be  restless.  You  are  very  comfortable 
there.  Isn’t  he.  Major?’  The  Major  smiled  again  more  gra- 
ciously than  before,  as  he  added: 

“ ‘ May  I take  a look?’ 

“ ‘Just  one  peep,  then,  no  more!’  said  she  coquettishly ; ‘poor 
dear  Wouski  is  so  timid.’ 

“ Scarcely  had  the  words  borne  balm  and  comfort  to  my  heart 
— for  I now  knew  that  to  the  dog,  and  not;  to  my  rival,  were  all 
the  flattering  expressions  applied — when  a slight  scream  from 
Polly,  and  a tremendous  oath  from  the  Major,  raised  me  from 
my  dream  of  happiness. 

“ ‘ Take  your  foot  down,  sir,  Mr.  Monsoon,  how  could  you  do 
so  ?’  cried  Polly. 

“ ‘What  the  devil,  sir,  do  you  mean?’  shouted  the  Major, 

“ ‘Oh!  I shall  die  of  shame,’  sobbed  she. 

“ ‘ I’ll  shoot  him  like  a riddle,’  muttered  old  Belson. 

“By  this  time  the  whole  table  had  got  at  the  story,  and  such 
peals  of  laughter,  mingled  with  suggestions  for  my  personal 
maltreatment,  I never  heard.  All  my  attempts  at  explanation 
were  in  vain.  I was  not  listened  to,  much  less  believed,  and  the 
old  Colonel  finished  the  scene  by  ordering  me  to  my  quarters  in 
a voice  I shall  never  forget,  the  whole  room  being,  at  the  time  I 
made  my  exit,  one  scene  of  tumultuous  laughter  from  one  end  to 
the  other.  Jamaica  after  this  became  too  hot  for  me.  The  story 
was  repeated  on  every  side;  for,  it  seems,  I had  been  sitting 
with  my  foot  on  Polly’s  lap;  but  so  occupied  was  I with  my 
jealous  vigilance  of  the  Major,  I was  not  aware  of  the  fact 
until  she  herself  discovered  it. 

I need  not  say  how  the  following  morning  brought  with  it 
every  possible  offer  of  amende  upon  my  part;  everything  from  a 
written  apology  to  a proposition  to  marry  the  lady,  I was  ready 
for;  and  how  the  matter  might  have  ended  I know  not;  for,  in 
the  middle  of  the  negotiations,  we  were  ordered  off  to  Halifax, 
where,  be  assured,  I abandoned  my  attitude  a la  Turqiie  for 
many  a long  day  after,” 


CHAPTEK  XXXVI. 

THE  LANDING. 

What  a contrast  to  the,  dull  monotony  of  our  life  at  sea  did 
the  scene  present  which  awaited  us  on  landing  in  Lisbon!  The 
whole  quay  was  crowded  with  hundreds  of  people  eagerly  watch- 
ing the  vessel  which  bore  from  her  mast  the  broad  ensign  of 
Britain.  Dark-featured,  swarthy,  mustached  faces,  with  red 
caps  rakishly  set  on  one  side,  mingled  with  the  Saxon  faces  and 


198 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


fair-haired  natives  of  our  own  country.  Men-of-war  boats  plied 
unceasingly  to  and  fro  across  the  tranquil  river,  some  slender 
reefer  in  the  stern  sheets;  while  behind  him  trailed  the  red  pen- 
non of  some  '‘tall  admiral.” 

The  din  and  clamor  of  a mighty  city  mingled  with  the  far-off 
sounds  of  military  music;  and,  in  the  vistas  of  the  opening 
streets,  masses  of  troops  might  be  seen,  in  marching  order;  and 
all  betokened  the  near  approach  of  war. 

Our  anchor  had  scarcely  been  dropped  when  an  eight-oar  gig, 
with  a midshipman  steering,  came  alongside. 

“ Ship  ahoy,  there!  You’ve  troops  on  board?” 

“Ay,  ay,  sir.” 

Before  the  answer  could  be  spoken,  he  was  on  the  deck. 

“May  I ask,”  said  he,  touching  his  cap  slightly,  “ who  is  the 
officer  in  command  of  the  detachment  ?” 

“ (Japtain  Power;  very  much  at  your  service,”  said  Fred,  re- 
turning the  salute. 

“ Eear-Admiral  Sir  Edward  Douglas  requests  that  you  will  do 
him  the  favor  to  home  on  board  immediately;  and  bring  your 
dispatches  with  you.” 

“ Fm  quite  ready,”  said  Power,  as  he  placed  his  papers  in  his 
sabertasch;  “ but  first  tell  us  what’s  doing  here.  Anything  new 
lately  ?” 

“ I have  heard  nothing,  except'of  some  affair  with  the  Portu- 
guese; they’ve  been  drubbed  again;  but  our  people  have  not  been 
engaged.  I say,  we  had  better  get  under  way;  there’s  our  first 
lieutenant,  with  his  telescope  up;  he’s  looking  straight  at  us. 
So,  come  along.  Good-evening,  gentlemen;”  and  in  another 
moment  the  sharp  craft  was  cutting  the  clear  water,  while 
Power  gayly  waved  us  a good-bye. 

“Who’s  for  shore?”  said  the  Skipper,  as  half  a dozen  boats 
swarmed  around  the  side  or  held  on  by  their  boat-hooks  to  the 
rigging. 

“Who  is  not?”  said  Monsoon,  who  now  appeared  in  his  old 
blue  frock  covered  with  tarnished  braiding,  and  a cocked  hat 
that  might  have  roofed  a pagoda.  Who  is  not,  my  old  boy  ? Is 
not  every  man  amongst  us  delighted  with  the  prospect  of  fresh 

frog,  cool  wine,  and  a bed  somewhat  longer  than  four  feet  six  ? 

say,  O’Malley!  Sparks!  Where’s  the  Adjutant?  Ah,  there  he 
is!  We’ll  not  mind  the  Doctor;  he’s  a very  jovial  little  fellow, 
but  a damned  bore,  entre  nous;  and  we’ll  have  a cozy  little  sup- 
per at  the  Eua  di  Toledo.  I know  the  place  well.  A^ew,  now! 
Get  away,  boy.  Sit  steady.  Sparks;  she’s  only  a cockle-shell. 
There — that’s  the  Plaza  de  la  Eegna;  there  to  the  left.  There’s 
the  great  cathedral — you  can’t  see  it  now.  Another  seventy- 
four?  why,  there’s  the  whole  fleet  here!  I wish  Power  joy  of 
his  afternoon  with  old  Douglas.” 

“Do  you  know  him,  then.  Major?” 

“ Do  I!  I should  rather  think  T do.  He  was  going  to  put  me 
in  irons  here  in  this  river  once.  A great  shame  it  was;  but  I’ll 
tell  you  tlie  story  another  time.  There — gently  now;  that’s  it. 
Thank  God!  once  more  upon  land.  How  I do  hate  a ship!  upon 
my  life,  a sauce-boat  is  the  only  boat  endurable  in  this  world®” 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


199 


We  edged  our  way  with  difficulty  through  the  dense  crowd, 
and  at  last  reached  the  Plaza.  Here  the  numbers  were  still 
greater,  but  of  a different  class;  several  pretty  and  well-dressed 
women  with  their  dark  eyes  twinkling  above  their  black  mantil- 
las, as  they  held  them  across  their  faces,  watched  with  an 
intense  curiosity  one  of  the  streets  that  opened  upon  the 
square. 

In  a few  moments  the  band  of  a regiment  was  heard,  and 
very  shortly  after  the  regular  tramp  of  troops  followed,  as  the 
Eighty-seventh  marched  into  the  Plaza,  and  formed  a line. 

The  music  ceased;  the  drums  rolled  along  the  line;  and  the 
next  moment  all  was  still.  It  was  really  an  inspiriting  sight  to 
one  whose  heart  was  interested  in  the  career,  to  see  those  gal- 
lant fellows,  as,  with  their  bronzed  faces  and  stalwart  frames, 
they  stood  motionless  as  a rock.  As  I continued  to  look,  the 
band  marched  into  the  middle  of  the  square  and  struck  up  “ Gar- 
ry owen.”  Scarcely  was  the  first  part  played,  when  a tremendous 
cheer  burst  from  the  troop- ship  in  the  river.  The  welcome  notes 
had  reached  the  poor  fellows  there;  the  well-known  sounds 
that  told  of  home  and  country,  met- their  ears;  and  the  loud  cry 
of  recognition  bespoke  their  heart’s  fullness. 

“There  they  go.  Your  wild  countrymen  have  heard  their 
Banz  des  vacJies,  it  seems.  Lord!  how  they’ve  frightened  the 
poor  Portuguese!  look,  how  they’re  running!” 

Such  was  actually  the  case.  The  loud  cheers  uttered  from  the 
river  were  taken  up  by  others  straggling  on  shore,  one  universal 
shout  betokened  that  fully  one-third  of  the  red-coats  around 
came  from  the  dear  island,  and,  in  their  enthusiasm,  had  terrified 
the  natives  to  no  small  extent. 

“ Is  not  that  Ferguson,  there?”  cried  the  Major,  as  an  officer 
passed  us  with  his  arm  in  a sling.  “ I say,  Joe  Ferguson;  oh!  I 
knew  it  was.” 

“Monsoon,  my  hearty,  how  goes  it? — only  just  arrived  I see 
— delighted  to  meet  you  out  here  once  more.  Why,  we’ve  been 
dull  as  a veteran  battalion  without  you.  These  your  friends? 
pray  present  me.”  The  ceremony  of  introduction  over,  the 
Major  invited  Ferguson  to  join  our  party  at  supper.  “ No,  not 
to-night,  Major,”  said  he,  “ you  must  be  my  guests  this  evening. 
My  quarters  are  not  five  minutes’  walk  from  this — I shall  not 
promise  you  very  luxurious  fare.” 

“A  carbonade  with  olives,  a roast  duck,  a bowl  of  bishop,  and, 
if  you  will,  a few  bottles  of  burgundy,”  said  the  Major;  “ don’t 
put  yourself  out  for  us — soldier’s  fare,  eh  ?” 

I could  not  help  smiling  at  the  naive  notion  of  simplicity  so 
cunningly  suggested  by  old  Monsoon.  As  I followed  the  party 
through  the  streets,  my  step  was  light,  my  heart  not  less  so;  for 
what  sensations  are  more  delightful  than  those  of  landing  after 
a voyage;  the  escape  from  the  durance  vile  of  shipboard,  with 
its  monotonous  days  and  dreary  nights;  its  ill-regulated  ap- 
pointments; its  cramped  accommodation;  its  uncertain  durat'on; 
its  eternal  round  of  unchanging  amusements;  for  the  freedom 
of  the  shore,  with  a land  breeze;  and  a firm  footing  to  tread 
upon;  and,  certainly  not  least  of  all,  the  sight  of  that  brightest 


200 


CHARLES  aMALLET. 


part  gf  creation,  whose  soft  eyes  and  tight  ankles  are,  perhaps, 
the  greatest  of  all  imaginable  pleasures  to  him  who  has  been  the 
dweller  on  blue  water  for  several  weeks  long. 

“Here  we  are,”  cried  out  Ferguson,  as  we  stopped  at  the  door 
of  a large  and  handsome  house.  We  followed  up  a spacious 
stair  into  an  ample  room,  sparingly  but  not  uncomfortably  fur- 
nished; plans  of  sieges,  maps  of  the  seat  of  war,  pistols,  sabers, 
and  belts,  decorated  the  white  walls,  and  a few  books,  and  a 
stray  army-list,  betokened  the  habits  of  the  occupant. 

While  Ferguson  disappeared  to  make  some  preparations  for 
supper.  Monsoon  commenced  a congratulation  to  the  party  upon 
the  good  fortune  that  had  befallen  them.  “Capital  fellow  is 
Joe — never  without  something  good,  and  a rare  one  to  pass  the 
bottle!  Oh!  here  he  comes;  be  alive  there.  Sparks;  take  a cor- 
ner of  the  cloth;  how  deliciously  juicy  that  ham  looks;  pass  the 
madeira  down  there;  ’what’s  under  that  cover — stewed  kidneys  ?” 
While  Monsoon  went  on  thus,  we  took  our  places  at  table,  and 
set  to  with  an  appetite  which  only  a newly -landed  traveler  ever 
knows. 

“Another  spoonful  of  the  gravy?  Thank  you.  And  so  they 
say  we’ve  not  been  faring  over  well  lately,”  said  the  Major; 
“not  a word  of  truth  in  the  report;  our  people  have  not  been 
engaged.  The  only  thing  lately  was  a smart  brush  we  had  at 
the  Tamega.  Poor  Patrick,  a countryman  of  ours,  and  my- 
self were  serving  wdth  the  Portuguese  brigade,  when  Laborde 
drove  us  back  upon  the  town,  and  actually  routed  us.  The 
Portuguese  general,  caring  little  for  anything  save  his  own 
safety,  was  making  at  once  for  the  mountains,  when  Patrick 
called  upon  his  battalion  to  face  about  and  charge;  and 
nobly  they  did  it  too.  Down  they  came  upon  the  advancing 
masses  of  the  French,  and  literally  hurled  them  back  upon  the 
main  body.  The  other  regiments  seeing  this  gallant  stand, 
wheeled  about  and  poured  in  a volley,  and  then,  fixing  bayo- 
nets, stormed  a little  mount  beside  the  hedge,  which  commanded 
the  whole  suburb  of  Villa  Real.  The  French,  wlio  soon  recov- 
ered their  order,  now  prepared  for  a second  attack,  and  came  on 
in  two  dense  columns,  when  Patrick,  who  had  little  confidence 
in  the  steadiness  of  his  people,  for  any  lengthened  resistance, 
resolved  upon  once  more  charging  with  the  bayonet.  The  order 
was  scarcely  given  when  the  French  were  upon  us,  their  flank 
defended  by  some  of  La  Houssaye's  heavy  dragoons.  For  an 
instant  the  conflict  was  doubtful,  until  poor  Patrick  fell  mor- 
tally wounded  upon  the  parapet,  when  the  men,  no  longer 
hearing  his  bold  cheer,  nor  seeing  his  noble  figure  in  the  ad- 
vance, turned  and  fled  pell-mell  back  upon  the  town.  As  for 
me,  blocked  up  amid  the  mass,  I was  cut  down  from  the  shoul- 
der to  the  elbow,  by  a young  fellow  of  about  sixteen,  who  gal- 
loped about  like  a school-boy  on  a holiday.  The  wound  was 
only  dangerous  from  the  loss  of  blood,  and  so  I contrived  to 
reach  Amacante  without  much  difficulty;  from  whence,  with 
three  or  four  others,  I was  ordered  here  until  fit  for  service.” 

“ But  what  news  from  our  head- quarters?”  inquired  I. 

“ All  imaginable  kind  of  rumors  are  afloat;  some  say  that  Crad- 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY.  201 

dock  is  retiring;  others,  that  a part  of  the  army  is  in  motion 
Upon  Caldas.’^ 

‘ ‘ Then  we  are  not  going  to  have  a very  long  sojourn  here 
after  all.  Eh,  Major?  Donna  Maria  de  Tormes  will  be  incom 
solable.  By  the  bye,  their  house  is  just  opposite  us;  have  you 
never  heard  Monsoon  mention  his  friends  there  ?” 

“ Come,  come,  Joe,  how  can  you  be  so  foolish  ?” 

“But,  Major,  my  dear  friend,  what  signifies  your  modesty? 
there  is  not  a man  in  the  service  does  not  know  it,  save  those  in 
the  last  Gazette.” 

“ Indeed,  Joe,  I am  very  angry  with  you.” 

“Well,  then,  by  Jove,  I must  tell  it  myself;  though  faith,  lads, 
you  lose  not  a little  for  want  of  Monsoon’s  tact  in  the  narra- 
tive.” 

“ Anything  is  better  than  trusting  to  such  a biographer,”  cried 
the  Major,  “so  here  goes: 

“ When  I was  Acting  Commissary-general  to  the  Portuguese 
forces,  some  few  years  ago,  I obtained  great  experience  of  the 
habits  of  the  people;  for,  though  naturally  of  an  unsuspecting 
temperament  myself,  I generally  contrive  to  pick  out  the  little 
foibles  of  my  associates,  even  upon  a short  acquaintance.  Now, 
my  appointment  pleased  me  very  much  on  this  score;  it  gave 
me  little  opportunities  of  examining  the  world;  ‘ the  greatest 
study  of  mankind  is  man  ’ — Sparks  would  say  woman — but  no 
matter. 

“Now,  I soon  discovered  that  our  ancient  and  very  excellent 
allies,  the  Portuguese,  with  a beautiful  climate,  delicious  wines, 
and  very  delightful  wives  and  daughters,  were  the  most  infernal 
rogues  and  scoundrels  ever  met  with.  ‘ Make  yourself  thorough- 
ly acquainted  with  the  leading  features  of  the  natives,’  said  old 
Sir  Harry  to  me,  in  a dispatch  from  head-quarters;  and,  faith, 
it  was  not  difficult;  such  open,  palpable,  undisguised  rascals 
never  were  heard  of.  I thought  I knew  a thing  or  two  myself, 
when  I landed:  but.  Lord  love  you,  I was  a babe;  I was  an  infant 
in  swaddling  clothes,  compared  with  them;  and  they  humbugged 
me,  ay,  me! — till  I began  to  suspect  that  I was  only  walking  in 
my  sleep. 

“ ‘ Why,  Monsoon,’  said  the  General,  ‘they  told  me  you  were 
a sharp  fellow,  and  yet  the  people  here  seem  to  work  round  you 
every  day.  This  will  never  do.  You  must  brighten  up  a little, 
or  I shall  be  obliged  to  send  you  back.’ 

“ ‘ General,’  said  I,  ‘ they  used  to  call  me  no  fool  in  England, 
but,  somehow,  here ’ 

“‘I  understand,’  said  he,  ‘you  don’t  know  the  Portuguese; 
there’s  but  one  way  with  them;  strike  quickly,  and  strike  home. 
Never  give  them  time  for  roguery;  for,  if  they  have  a moment’s 
reflection,  they’ll  cheat  the  devil  himself;  but,  when  you  see 
the  plot  working,  come  slap  down  and  decide  the  thing  your 
own  way.’ 

“ Well,  now,  there  never  was  anything  so  true  as  this  advice, 
and,  for  the  eighteen  months  I acted  upon  it,  I never  knew  it 
fail. 

“ ^ I want  a thousand  measures  of  wheat.’ 


202 


CHARLES  OAIALLEY. 


‘‘  ‘ Senor  Excellenza,  the  crops  have  been  miserably  deficient, 
and ’ 

“ ‘ Sergeant-major,’  I would  say,  ‘these  poor  peojfie  have  no 
corn;  it’s  a wine  country;  let  them  make  up  the  rations  that 
way.’ 

“ The  wheat  came  in  that  evening. 

“ ‘ One  hundred  and  twenty  bullocks  wanted  for  the  reserve.’ 

“ ‘ The  cattle  are  all  up  the  mountains.’ 

“ ‘ Let  the  alcalde  catch  them  before  night,  or  I’ll  catch 
him.'*  ' 

“ Lord  bless  you!  I had  beef  enough  to  feed  the  Peninsula. 
And  in  this  way,  wliile  the  forces  were  eating  short  allow- 
ance and  half  rations  elsewhere,  our  brigade  were  plump  as 
aldermen. 

“ When  we  lay  in  Andalusia  this  was  easy  enough.  What  a 
country  to  be  sure!  such  vineyards,  such  gardens,  such  delicious 
valleys,  waving  with  corn  and  fat  with  olives;  actually  it  seem- 
ed a kind  of  dispensation  of  Providence  to  make  w^ar  in.  There 
was  everything  you  could  desire;  and,  then,  the  people,  like  ail 
your  wealthy  ones,  were  so  timid,  and  so  easily  frightened,  you 
could  get  what  you  pleased  out  of  them  b}^  a little  terror.  My 
scouts  managed  this  very  well. 

“ ‘ He  is  coming,’  they  would  say,  ‘ after  to-morrow.’ 

“ ‘ Madre  de  Dios.'* 

“ ‘ I hope  he  won’t  burn  the  village.’ 

“ ‘ Questos  infernales  Ingleses!  how  wicked  they  are!’ 

“ ‘ You’d  better  try  what  a sack  of  moidores  or  doubloons  might 
do  with  him;  he  may  refuse  them,  but  make  the  effort.’ 

“ Ha!”  said  the  Major,  with  a long-drawn  sigh,  “ those  were 
pleasant  times;  alas!  that  they  should  ever  come  to  an  end.  Well 
among  the  old  hidalgos  I met,  there  was  one  named  Don  Emanuel 
Selvio  de  Tormes,  an  awful  old  miser,  rich  as  Croesus,  and  sus- 
picious as  the  arch  fiend  himself.  Lord,  how  I melted  him 
down!  I quartered  two  squadrons  of  horse  and  a troop  of  flying 
artillery  upon  him.  How  the  fellows  did  eat!  such  a consump- 
tion of  wines  was  never  heard  of;  and,  as  they  began  to  slacken 
a little,  I took  care  to  replace  them  by  fresh  arrivals — fellows 
from  the  mountains — eacadores  they  call  them.  At  last,  my 
friend  Don  Emanuel  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  he  sent  me  a 
diplomatic  envoy  to  negotiate  terms,  which,  upon  the  whole,  I 
must  say,  were  fair  enough,  and,  in  a few  days  after,  the  caca- 
dores  were  withdrawn,  and  I took  up  my  quarters  at  the  chateau. 
I have  had  various  chances  and  changes  in  this  wicked  world, 
but  I am  free  to  confess  that  1 never  passed  a more  agreeable 
time  than  the  seven  weeks  I spent  there.  Don  Emanuel,  when 
properly  managed,  became  a very  pleasant  little  fellow;  Donna 
Maria,  his  wife,  was  a sweet  creature.  You  need  not  be  wink- 
ing that  way.  Upon  my  life  she  was;  rather  fat,  to  be  sure,  and 
her  age  something  verging  upon  the  fifties;  but  she  had  such 
eyes,  black  as  sloes,  and  luscious  as  ripe  grapes;  and  she  was 
always  smiling,  and  ogling,  and  looking  so  sweet.  Confound 
me  if  I think  she  wasn’t  the  most  enchanting  being  in  this  world, 
with  about  ten  thousand  pounds’  vvorth  of  jewels  upon  her  fingers 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


203 


and  in  her  ears.  I have  her  before  me  at  this  instant,  as  she 
used  to  sit  in  the  little  arbor  in  the  garden,  with  a Manila  cigar 
in  her  mouth,  and  a little  brandy  and  water — quite  weak,  you 
know — beside  her. 

‘‘  ‘Ah!  General,’  she  used  to  say — she  always  called  me  Gen- 
eral— ‘ what  a glorious  career  yours  is!  a soldier  is  indeed  a man.’ 

“ Then  she  would  look  at  poor  Emanuel,  who  used  to  sit  in  a 
corner,  holding  his  hand  to  his  face  for  hours,  calculating  inter^ 
est  and  cent  per  cent  till  he  fell  asleep. 

“Now  he  labored  under  a very  singular  malady — not  that  I 
even  knew  it  at  the  time — a kind  of  luxation  of  the  lower  jaw, 
which,  when  it  came  on,  happened  somehow  to  press  upon  some 
vital  nerve  or  other,  and  left  him  perfectly  paralyzed  till  it  was 
restored  to  its  proper  place.  In  fact,  during  the  time  the  agony 
lasted,  he  was  like  one  in  a trance,  for  though  he  could  see  and 
hear,  he  could  neither  speak  nor  move,  and  looked  as  if  he  had 
done  with  both,  for  many  a day  to  come. 

“ Well,  as  I was  saying,  I knew  nothing  of  all  this,  till  a slight 
circumstance  made  it  known  to  me.  I was  seated  one  evening 
in  the  little  arbor  I mentioned,  with  Donna  Maria;  there  was  a 
little  table  before  us,  covered  with  wines  and  fruits,  a dish  of 
olives,  some  Castile  oranges,  and  a fresh  pine.  I remember  it 
well,  my  eye  roamed  over  the  little  dessert,  set  out  in  old-fash- 
ioned rich  silver  dishes,  then  turned  toward  the  lady  herself, 
with  rings  and  brooches,  ear-rings  and  chains  enough  to  reward 
one  for  sacking  a town;  and  I said  to  myself:  ‘ Monsoon,  Mon- 
soon, this  is  better  than  long  marches  in  the  Pyrenees,  with  a 
cork-tree  for  a bed-curtain,  and  wet  grass  for  a mattress.  How 
pleasantly  one  might  jog  on  in  this  world,  with  this  little  coun- 
try-house for  his  abode,  and  Donna  Maria  for  a companion!’ 

“I  tasted  the  port,  it  was  delicious.  Now,  I knew  very  little 
Portuguese,  but  I made  some  effort  to  ask  if  there  was  much  of  it 
in  the  cellar. 

“She  smiled,  and  said,  ‘ Oh!  yes.’ 

“‘What  a luxurious  life  one  might  lead  here!’  thought  I; 
‘ and,  after  all,  perhaps  Providence  might  remove  Don  Eman- 
uel.’ 

“ I finished  the  bottle  as  I thus  meditated.  The  next  was,  if 
possible,  more  crusty. 

“ ‘ This  is  a delicious  retreat,’  said  I,  soliloquizing. 

“ Donna  Maria  seemed  to  know  what  was  passing  in  my  mind, 
for  she  smiled  too. 

“ ‘ Yes,’  said  I,  in  broken  Portuguese,  ‘ one  might  be  very  happy 
here,  Donna  Maria.’ 

“ She  blushed,  and  I continued: 

“ ‘What  can  one  want  for  more  in  this  life;  all  the  charms 
that  rendered  Paradise  what  it  was  ’ — I took  her  hand  here— 
‘and  made  Adam  blessed.’ 

“ ‘Ah,  General,’  said  slie,  with  a sigh,  ‘you  are  such  a flat- 
terer.’ 

“ ‘ Who  could  flatter,’  said  I,  with  enthusiasm,  ‘ when  there 
are  not  words  enough  to  express  what  he  feels  f This  was  true. 


204 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


for  my  Portuguese  was  fast  failing  me — ‘ but  if  I ever  was  happy 
it  is  now.’ 

“ I took  another  pull  at  the  port. 

“‘If  I only  thought,’  said  I,  ‘ that  my  presence  here  was  not 
thought  unwelcome ” 

“ ‘ Fie,  General,’  said  she,  ‘ how  could  you  say  such  a thing?’ 

“ ‘ If  T only  thought  I was  not  hated,’  said  I,  tremblingly. 

“ ‘Oh!’  said  she  again. 

“ ‘ Despised.’ 

“ ‘Oh!’ 

“ ‘ Loathed.’ 

“ She  pressed  my  hand;  I kissed  it;  she  hurriedly  snatched  it 
from  me,  and  pointed  toward  a lime  tree  near,  beneath  which, 
in  the  cool  enjoyment  of  his  cigar,  sat  the  spare  and  detested 
figure  of  Don  Emanuel. 

“ ‘ Yes,’  thought  I,  ‘ there  he  is,  the  only  bar  to  my  good  fort- 
une; were  it  not  for  him,  it  should  not  be  long  before  I became 
possessor  of  this  excellent  old  chateau,  with  a most  indiscretion- 
ary power  over  the  cellar.  Don  Mauricius  Monsoon  would  speed- 
ily assume  his  place  among  the  grandees  of  Portugal.’ 

“ I know  not  how  long  my  reverie  lasted,^nor,  indeed,  how  the 
evening  passed;  but  I remember  well  the  moon  was  up,  and  a 
sky  bright  with  a thousand  stars  was  shining,  as  I sat  beside  the 
fair  Donna  Maria,  endeavoring,  with  such  Portuguese  as  it 
pleased  fate  to  bestow  on  me,  to  instruct  her  touching  my  war- 
like services  and  deeds  of  arms.  The  fourth  bottle  of  port  was 
ebbing  beneath  my  eloquence,  as  responsively  her  heart  beat, 
when  I heard  a slight  rustle  in  the  branches  near.  I looked, 
and,  heavens!  what  a sight  did  I behold!  There  was  little  Don 
Emanuel  stretched  upon  the  grass,  with  his  mouth  wide  open, 
his  face  pale  as  death,  his  arms  stretched  out  at  either  side,  and 
his  legs  stiffened  straight  out.  I ran  over  and  asked  if  he  were 
ill,  but  no  answer  came.  I lifted  up  an  arm,  but  it  fell  heavily 
upon  the  ground  as  I let  it  go;  the  leg  did  likewise.  I touched 
his  nose;  it  was  cold. 

“‘Hollo,’  thought  I,  ‘is  it  so;  this  comes  of  mixing  water 
with  your  sherry.’  I saw  where  it  would  end. 

“Now,  upon  my  life,  I felt  sorry  for  the  little  fellow;  but, 
somehow,  one  gets  so  familiarized  with  this  sort  of  thing  in  a 
campaign,  that  one  only  half  feels  in  a case  like  this. 

“ ‘ Yes,’  said  I,  ‘ man  is  but  grasEi;  but  I,  for  one,  must  make 
hay  while  the  sun  shines.  Now  for  the  Donna  Maria,’  for  the 
poor  thing  was  asleep  in  the  arbor  all  this  while. 

“ ‘ Donna,’  said  I,  shaking  her  by  the  elbow,  ‘ Donna,’  said  I, 
‘ don’t  be  shocked  at  what  I’m  going  to  say.’ 

“ ‘Ah!  General,’  said  she  with  a sigh,  ‘say  no  more;  I must 
not  listen  to  you.’ 

“ ‘You  don’t  know  that/  said  I,  with  a knowing  look;  ‘you 
don’t  know  that.’ 

“ ‘ Why,  what  can  you  mean  ?’ 

“‘The  little  fellow  is  done  for;’  for  the  port  was  working 
strong  now,  and  destroyed  all  my  fine  sensibility.  ‘ Yes,  Donna, 
said  I,  ‘you  are  free’ — here  I threw  myself  on  my  knees;  ‘free 


CBJi  B D-MALLEY.  m 

to  make  \yie  the  happiei^it  of.  com  missaries  and  the  jolliest  grandee 
of  Portugal  that  ever- — ’ 

‘ But  Don  Emanuel?’ 

“‘Runout — dry — empty,’  inverting  a finished  decanter,  to 
typify  my  words  as  I spoke. 

“ ‘ He  is  not  dead!’  said  she,  with  a scream. 

‘ Even  so,’  said  I,  with  a hiccough;  ‘ ordered  for  service  in  a 
better  world,  where  there  are  neither  inspections  nor  arrears.’ 

“ Before  the  words  were  well  out,  she  sprang  from  the  bench, 
and  rushed  over  to  the  spot  where  the  little  Don  lay.  What  she 
said  or  did  I know  not,  but  the  next  moment  he  sat  bolt  upright 
in  the  grass,  and,  as  he  held  his  jaw  with  one  hand  and  sup^ 
ported  himself  on  the  other,  vented  such  a torrent  of  abuse  and 
insult  at  me,  that,  for  want  of  Portuguese  enough  to  reply,  I 
rejoined  in  English,  in  which  I swore  pretty  roundly  for  five 
minutes.  Meanwhile,  the  Donna  had  summoned  the  servants, 
who  removed  Don  Emanuel  to  the  house;  where,  on  my  return, 
I found  my  luggage  displayed  before  the  door,  with  a civil  hint 
to  deploy  in  orderly  time,  and  take  ground  elsewhere. 

“In  a few  days,  however,  his  anger  cooled  down,  and  I 
received  a polite  note  from  Donna  Maria,  that  the  Don  at  length 
began  to  understand  the  joke,  and  begged  I would  return  to  the 
chateau^  and  that  he  would  expect  me  at  dinner  the  same  day.” 

“ With  which,  of  course,  you  complied?” 

“ Which  of  course  I did.  Forgive  your  enemies,  my  dear  boy ; 
it  is  only  Christian-like;  and,  really,  we  lived  very  happily  ever 
after;  the  Donna  was  a mighty  clever  woman,  and  a dear,  good 
soul,  besides.” 

It  was  late  when  the  Major  concluded  his  story;  so,  after 
wishing  Ferguson  a good-night,  we  took  our  leave,  and  retired 
for  the  night  to  our  quarters. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

LISBON. 

The  tramp  of  horses’  feet,  and  the  sound  of  voices  beneath  the 
window,  roused  me  from  a deep  sleep.  I sprang  up,  and  drew 
aside  the  curtain.  What  a strange  confusion  beset  me  as  I 
looked  forth!  Before  me  lay  a broad  and  tranquil  river,  whose 
opposite  shore,  deeply  wooded,  and  studded  with  villas  and 
cottages,  rose  abruptly  from  the  water’s  edge;  vessels  of  war  lay 
tranquilly  in  the  stream,  their  penants  trailing  in  the  tide;  the 
loud  boom  of  a morning  gun  rolled  along  the  surface,  awaking 
a hundred  echoes  as  it  passed,  and  the  lazy  smoke  rested  for 
some  minufes  on  the  glassy  water  as  it  blended  with  the  thin  air 
of  1 he  morning. 

“Where  ami?”  was  my  first  question  to  myself,  as  I con- 
tinued to  look  from  side  to  side,  unable  to  collect  my  scattered 
senses. 

One  word  sufficed  to  recall  me  to  my  self,  as]  I heard  Power’s 
voice,  from  without,  call  out: 

“Charley!  O’Malley!  I say,  come  down  here!” 

I hurriedly  threw  on  my  clothes,  and  went  to  the  door. 


^06 


CHARLES  a MALLET. 


“Well,  Charley!  I’ve  been  put  in  the  harness  rather  sooner 
than  I expected.  Here’s  old  Douglas  has  been  sitting  up  all 
night,  writing  dispatches,  and  I must  hasten  on  to  headquarters 
without  a moment’s  delay.  There’s  work  before  us,  that’s  cer- 
tain; but  when,  where,  and  how,  of  that  I know  nothing.  You 
may  expect  the  route  every  moment;  the  French  are  still  ad- 
vancing. Meanwhile,  I have  a couple  of  commissions  for  you  to 
execute.  First,  here’s  a packet  for  Hammersly;  you  are  sure  to 
meet  him,  with  the  regiment,  in  a day  or  two.  I have  some 
scruples  about  asking  you  this — but,  confound  it! — you’re  too 
sensible  a fellow  to  care ” 

Here  he  hesitated;  and,  as  I colored  to  the  eyes,  for  some  min- 
utes he  seemed  uncertain  how  to  proceed.  At  length,  recovering 
himself,  he  went  on: 

“ Now  for  the  other.  This  is  a most  loving  epistle  from  a poor 
devil  of  a midshipman,  written  last  night,  by  a tallow  candle,  in 
a cockpit,  containing  vows  of  eternal  adoration  and  a lock  of 
hair.  I promised  faithfully  to  deliver  it  myself;  for  the  Thun- 
derer sails  for  Gibraltar  next  tide,  and  he  cannot  go  ashore  for 
an  instant.  However,  as  Sir  Arthur’s  billet  may  be  of  more  im- 
portance than  the  reefer’s,  I must  intrust  its  safe  beeping  to 
your  hands.  Now,  then,  don’t  look  so  devilish  sleepy;  but  rub 
your  eyes,  and  seem  to  understand  what  I*m  saying.  This  is 
the  address:  ‘ La  Senora  Inez  da  Rebiera,  Rua  Nuova,  opposite 
the  barber’s;’  you’ll  not  neglect  it.  So,  now,  my  deans  boy,  till 
our  next  meeting,  adios!’^ 

“Stop!  for  Heaven’s  sake,  not  so  fast,  I prajo  Where’s  the 
street  ?” 

“The  Rua  Nuova.  Remember  Figaro,  my  boy.  ‘Cinque 

“But  what  ami  to  do?” 

“To  do!  what  a question!  Anything;  everything.  Be  a good 
diplomat;  speak  of  the  torturing  agony  of  the  lover,  for  which 
I can  vouch  (the  boy  is  only  fifteen);  swear  that  he  is  to  return  in 
a month,  first  Lieutenant  of  the  Thunder  Bomb,  with  inten- 
tions that  even  Madam  Dalrymple  would  approve.” 

“What  nonsense!” said  I,  blushing  to  the  eyes. 

“ And  if  that  suffice  not,  I know  of  but  one  resource.” 

“Which  is;” 

‘ ‘ Make  love  to  her  yourself.  Ay,  even  so.  Don’t  look  so  con- 
foundedly vinegar;  the  girl,  I hear,  is  a devilish  pretty  one;  the 
house  pleasant;  and  I sincerely  wish  I could  exchange  duties 
with  you;  leaving  you  to  make  your  bows  to  His  Excellency  the 
C.  O.  F.,  and  myself  free  to  make  mine  to  La  Senora,  And  now, 
push  along,  old  red  cap.” 

So  saying,  he  made  a significant  cut  with  his  whip  at  the 
Portuguese  guide,  and  in  another  moment  was  out  of  sight. 

My  first  tliought  was  one  of  regret  at  Power’s  departure.  For 
some  time  past  we  had  been  inseparable  companions;  and,  not- 
withstanding the  reckless  and  wild  gayety  of  his  conduct,  I had 
ever  found  him  ready  to  assist  me  in  every  difficulty,  and  that 
with  an  address  and  dexterity  a more  calculating  adviser  might 
not  have  possessed.  I was  now  utterly  alone;  for  though  Mon-. 


CHARLES  O^ALLEY.  207 

soon  and  the  Adjutant  were  still  in  Lisbon,  as  was  also  Sparks, 
{ never  could  make  intimates  of  them. 

I ate  my  breakfast  with  a heavy  heart,  my  solitary  position 
again  suggesting  thoughts  of  home  and  kindred.  Just  at  this 
moment  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  packet  destined  for  Hammersly: 
I took  it  up  and  weighed  it  in  my  hand.  Alas!  thought  I,  how 
much  of  my  destiny  may  lie  within  that  envelope!  how  fatally 
may  my  after  life  be  influenced  by  it!  It  felt  heavy,  as  though 
there  was  something  besides  letters.  True,  too  true;  there  was  a 
picture;  Lucy’s  portrait!  The  cold  drops  of  perspiration  stood 
upon  my  forehead,  as  my  Angers  traced  the  outline  of  a minia- 
ture case  in  the  parcel.  I became  deadly  weak,  and  sank,  half 
fainting  upon  a chair.  And  such  is  the  end  of  my  flrst  dream 
of  happiness?  How  have  I duped,  how  have  I deceived  myself  ? 
For,  alas!  though  Lucy  had  never  responded  to  my  proffered  vows 
of  affection,  yet  had  I ever  nurtured  in  my  heart  a secret  hope 
that  I was  not  altogether  uncared  for.  Every  look  she  had  giv- 
en me,  every  word  she  had  spoken,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  her 
step,  her  every  gesture  were  before  me;  all  confirming  my  de- 
lusion. And  yet — I could  bear  no  more,  and  burst  into  tears. 

The  loud  call  of  a cavalry  trumpet  aroused  me. 

How  long  I had  passed  in  this  state  of  sad  despondency  I 
knew  not;  but  it  was  long  past  noon  when  I rallied  myself. 
My  charger  was  already  awaiting  me;  and  a second  blast  of 
the  trumpet  told  that  the  inspection  in  the  Plaza  was  about  to 
commence. 

As  I continued  to  dress,  I gradually  rallied  from  my  depress- 
ing thoughts  ; and  ere  I belted  my  sabertasche,  the  current  of 
my  ideas  had  turned  from  their  train  of  sadness  to  one  of  hardi- 
hood and  daring.  Lucy  Dash  wood  had  treated  me  like  a willful 
school- boy.  Mayhap,  I may  prove  myself  as  gallant  a soldier  as 
even  him  she  has  preferred  before  me. 

A third  sound  of  the  trumpet  cut  short  my  reflections,  and  I 
sprung  into  the  saddle,  and  hastened  toward  the  Plaza.  As  I 
dashed  along  the  streets  my  horse,  maddened  with  the  impulse 
that  stirred  my  own  heart,  curveted  and  plunged  uneasily.  As 
I reached  the  Plaza,  the  crowd  became  dense,  and  I was  obliged 
to  pull  up.  The  sound  of  the  music,  the  parade,  the  tramp  of 
the  infantry,  and  the  neighing  of  the  horses  were,  however,  too 
much  for  my  mettlesome  steed,  and  he  became  nearly  unman- 
ageable ; he  plunged  fearfully,  and  twice  reared  as  though  he 
would  have  fallen  back.  As  I scattered  the  foot-passengers  right 
and  left  with  terror,  my  eye  fell  upon  one  lovely  girl,  who,  tear- 
ing herself  from  her  companion,  rushed  wildly  toward  an  open 
doorway  for  shelter  ; suddenly,  however,  changing  her  intention, 
she  came  forward  a few  paces,  and  then,  as  if  overcome  by  fear, 
stood  stock-still,  her  hands  clasped  upon  her  bosom,  her  eyes 
upturned,  her  features  deadly  pale,  while  her  knees  seemed 
bending  beneath  her.  Never  did  I behold  a more  beautiful 
object ; her  dark  hair  had  fallen  loose  upon  her  shoulder,  and 
she  stood  the  very  ideal  of  the  “ Madonna  supplicating.”  My 
glance  was  short  as  a lightning  flash  ; for,  at  the  same  instant, 
my  horse  swerved,  and  dashed  forward  riglit  at  the  place  shQ 


208 


CHARLES  a M ALLEY. 


was  standing.  One  terrific  cry  rose  from  the  crowd,  who  saw 
the  danger.  Beside  her  stood  a muleteer,  who  had  drawn  up  his 
mule  and  cart  close  beside  the  foot-way  for  safety,  she  made  one 
effort  to  reach  it,  but  her  outstretched  arms  alone  moved,  and, 
paralyzed  by  terror  she  sank  motionless  upon  the  pavement. 
There  was  but  one  course  open  to  me  now:  so,  collecting  myself 
for  the  effort,  I threw  my  horse  upon  his  haunches,  and  then, 
dashing  the  spurs  into  his  flanks,  breasted  him  at  the  mule  cart. 
With  one  spring  he  rose,  and  cleared  it  at  a bound,  while  the 
very  air  rang  with  the  acclamations  of  the  multitude,  and  a 
thousand  bravos  saluted  me  as  I alighted  on  the  opposite  side. 

Well  done,  O’Malley,”  sang  out  the  little  Adjutant,  as  I flew 
past  and  pulled  up  in  the  middle  of  the  Plaza. 

“ Something  devilish  like  Galway  in  that  leap,”  said  a very 
musical  voice  beside  me;  and,  at  the  same  instant,  a tall,  soldier- 
like man,  in  an  undress  dragoon  frock,  touched  his  cap  and 
said; 

“ A Fourteenth  man,  I perceive,  sir.  May  I introduce  myself 
— Major  O’Shaughnessy.” 

I bowed,  and  shook  the  Major’s  proffered  hand,  while  he  con- 
tinued: 

“ Old  Monsoon  mentioned  your  name  to  us  this  morning. 
You  came  out  together,  if  I mistake  not?” 

“Yes;  but,  somehow,  Pve  missed  the  Major  since  my  land- 
mg.” 

“ Oh,  you’ll  see  him  presently;  he’ll  be  on  parade.  By  the  bye, 
he  wishes  particularly  to  meet  you.  W^e  dine  to-day  at  the  Quai 
de  Soderi,  and  if  you  are  not  engaged Yes,  this  is  the  per- 

son,” said  he,  turning  at  the  same  moment  toward  a servant, 
who,  with  a card  in  his  hand,  seemed  to  search  for  some  one  in 
the  crowd. 

The  man  approached,  and  handed  it  to  me. 

“What  can  this  mean?”  said  I;  “ Don  Emanuel  de  Blacas  y 
Silviero,  Rua  Nuova.” 

“Why,  that’s  the  great  Portuguese  contractor;  the  intendant 
of  half  the  army;  the  richest  fellow  in  Lisbon.  Have  you  known 
him  long  ?” 

“ Never  heard  of  him  till  now.” 

“ By  Jove,  you’re  in  luck!  No  man  gives  such  dinners;  he  has 
such  a cellar.  I’ll  wager  a fifty  it  was  his  daughter  you  took  in 
the  flying  leap  a while  ago.  I hear  she  is  a beautiful  creature.” 

“Yes,”  thought  I,  “ that  must  be  it;  and  yet,  strange  enough, 
I think  the  name  and  address  are  familiar  to  me.” 

“Ten  to  one  you’ve  heard  Monsoon  speak  of  him;  he’s  most 
intimate  there.  But  here  comes  the  Major.” 

And  as  he  spoke,  the  illustrious  Commissary  came  forward, 
holding  a vast  bundle  of  papers  in  one  hand,  and  his  snuff-box 
in  the  other,  and  followed  by  a long  string  of  clerks,  contractors, 
assistant-surveyors,  paymasters,  etc.,  all  eagerly  pressing  for- 
ward to  be  heard. 

“ It’s  quite  impossible;  I cau’t  doit  to-day.  Victualing  and 
physicking  are  very  good  things,  but  must  be  done  in  season. 
I have  been  up  all  night  at  the  accounts.  Have’n’t  I,  O’Malley  ?” 


CHARLES  O^MALLKY. 


209 


—here  he  winked  at  me  most  significantly — and  then  I have 
the  forage  and  stoppage  fund  to  look  through.  We  dine  at  six 
sharp,”  said  he,  sotto  voce — ‘‘  which  will  leave  me  without  one 
minute  unoccupied  for  the  next  twenty-four  hours.  Look  to 
your  toggery  this  evening;  I’ve  something  in  my  eye  for  you, 
O’Malley.” 

‘‘  Officers  unattached  to  their  several  corps  will  fall  into  the 
middle  of  the  Plaza,”  said  a deep  voice  among  the  crowd;  and 
in  obedience  to  the  order,  I rode  forward^  and  placed  myself 
with  a number  of  others,  apparently  newly  joined,  in  the  open 
square.  A short,  gray-haired  old  Colonel,  with  a dark,  eagle 
look,  proceeded  to  inspect  us,  reading  from  a paper  as  he  came 
along: 

Mr.  Hepton,  6th  Foot;  commission  bearing  date  11th  Janu- 
ary; drilled:  proceed  to  Over,  and  join  his  regiment.” 

“ Mr.  Gronow,  Fusileer  Guards;  remains  with  depot.” 

“ Captain  Mortimer,  1st  Dragoons;  appointed  Aid-de-Camp  to 
the  General  commanding  the  cavalry  brigade.” 

“Mr.  Sparks — where  is  Mr.  Sparks?  Mr.  Sparks  absent  from 
parade,  make  a note  of  it.” 

“ Mr.  O’Malley,  14th  Light  Dragoons.  Mr.  O’Malley;  oh,  I 
remember;  I have  received  a letter  from  Sir  George  Dashwood 
concerning  you.  You  will  hold  yourself  in  readiness  to  ma  ch. 
Your  friends  desire  that  before  you  may  obtain  any  staff  ap- 
pointment, you  should  have  the  opportunity  of  seeing  some  serv- 
ice. Am  I to  understand  such  is  your  wish  ?” 

“ Most  certainly.” 

“May  I have  the  pleasure  of  your  company  at  dinner  to- 
day ?” 

“ I regret  that  I have  already  accepted  an  invitation  to  dine 
with  Major  Monsoon.” 

“With  Major  MonsoonI  ah,  indeed!  Perhaps  it  might  be  as 
well  I should  mention — but  no  matter.  I wish  you  good-morn- 
ing.” 

So  saying,  the  little  Colonel  rode  off,  leaving  me  to  suppose 
that  my  dinner  engagement  had  not  raised  me  in  his  esUma- 
tion,  though  why  I could  not  exactly  determine. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

THE  STRADA  NUOVA. 

Our  dinner  was  a long  and  uninteresting  one,  and,  as  I found 
that  the  Major  was  likely  to  prefer  his  seat  as  chairman  of  the 
party,  to  the  seductions  of  ladies’  society,  I took  the  first  oppor- 
tunity of  escaping,  and  left  the  room. 

It  was  a rich  moonlight  night,  as  I found  myself  in  the  street. 
My  way,  which  led  along  the  banks  of  the  Tagus,  was  almost 
as  light  as  in  daytime,  and  crowded  with  walking  parties,  who 
sauntered carelesslyfalong,  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  cool,  refresh- 
ing night  air.  On  inquiring,  I discovered  that  the  Rua  Nuova 
was  at  the  extremity  of  the  city;  but  as  the  road  led  along  by 
the  rivp.r.  T did  not  regret  the  distance,  but  walked  on  with 


210  CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 

increasing  pleasure  at  the  charms  of  so  heavenly  a climate  and 
country. 

After  three  quarters  of  an  hour’s  walk,  the  streets  became  by 
degrees  less  and  less  crowded.  A solitary  party  passed  me  now 
and  then;  the  buzz  of  distant  voices  succeeded  to  the  gay  laughter 
and  merry  tones  of  the  passing  groups,  and,  at  length,  my  own 
footsteps  alone  awoke  the  echoes  along  the  deserted  pathway. 
I stopped  every  now  and  then  to  gaze  upon  the  tranquil  river, 
whose  eddies  were  circling  in  the  pale  silver  of  the  moonlight. 
I listened  with  attentive  ear,  as  the  night  breeze  wafted  to  me 
the  far-off  sounds  of  a guitar,  and  the  deep  tones  of  some  love’s 
serenade;  while  again  the  tender  warbling  of  the  nightingale 
came  borne  across  the  stream,  on  a wind  rich  wtth  the  odor  of 
the  orange-tree. 

As  thus  I lingered  on  niy  way,  the  time  stole  on;  and  it  was 
near  midnight  ere  I roused  myself  from  the  reverie  surrounding 
objects  had  thrown  about  me.  I stopped  suddenly,  and  for  some 
minutes  I struggled  with  myself  to  discover  if  I was  really 
awake.  As  I walked  along,  lost  in  my  reflections,  I had  entered 
a little  garden  beside  the  river;  fragrant  plants  and  lovely 
flowers  bloomed  on  every  side;  the  orange,  the  camelia,  the 
cactus,  and  the  rich  laurel  of  Portugal  were  blending  their  green 
and  golden  hues  around  me,  while  the  very  air  was  filled  with 
delicious  music.  “ Was  it  a dream,  could  such  ecstasy  be  real?’’ 
I asked  myself,  as  the  rich  notes  swelled  upward,  in  their 
strength,  and  sunk  in  soft  cadence  to  tones  of  melting  harmony; 
now  bursting  forth  in  the  full  force  of  gladness,  the  voices 
blended  together  in  one  stream  of  mellow  music,  and,  suddenly 
ceasing,  the  soft  but  thrilling  shake  of  a female  voice  rose  upon 
the  air,  and  its  plaintive  beauty  stirred  the  very  heart.  The 
proud  tramp  of  martial  music  succeeded  to  the  low  wailing  cry 
of  agony;  then  came  the  crash  of  battle,  the  clang  of  steel;  the 
thunder  of  the  fight  rolled  in  all  its  majesty,  increasing  in  its 
maddening  excitement  till  it  ended  in  one  loud  shout  of  victory. 

All  was  still;  not  a breath  moved,  not  a leaf  stirred,  and  again 
was  I relapsing  into  my  dreamy  skepticism,  when  again  the  notes 
swelled  upward  in  concert.  But  now  their  accents  were  changed, 
and,  in  low,  subdued  tones,  faintly  and  slowly  uttered,  the 
prayer  of  thanksgiving  rose  to  Heaven,  and  spoke  their  grateful- 
ness. I almost  fell  upon  my  knees,  and  already  the  tears  filled 
my  eyes,  as  I drank  in  the  sounds.  My  heart  was  full  to  burst- 
ing, and,  even  now  as  I write  it,  my  pulse  throbs  as  I remember 
the  hymn  of  the  Abencerrages. 

When  I rallied  from  my  trance  of  excited  pleasure,  my  first 
thought  was — where  was  I,  and  how  came  I there?  Before  I 
could  resolve  my  doubts  upon  the  question,  my  attention  was 
turned  in  another  direction,  for  close  beside  me  the  branches 
moved  forward,  and  a pair  of  arms  were  thrown  around  my 
neck,  while  a delicious  voice  cried  out,  in  an  accent  of  childish 
delight,  ‘^Trovador  At  the  same  instant  a lovely  head  sank 
upon  my  shoulder,  covering  it  with  tresses  of  long  brown  hair. 
The  arms  pressed  me  still  more  closely,  till  I felt  her  very  heart 
beating  against  my  side. 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


211 


*^3Iio  fradre,"  said  a soft,  trembling  voice,  as  her  fingers  played 
in  my  hair  and  patted  my  temples. 

Wliat  a situation  mine?  I well  knew  that  some  mistaken 
identity  had  been  the  cause;  but  still,  I could  not  repress  my 
inclination  to  return  the  embrace,  as  I pressed  my  lips  upon  the 
fair  forehead  that  leaned  upon  my  bosom;  at  the  same  moment 
she  threw  back  her  head,  as  if  to  look  me  more  fully  in  the  face. 
One  glance  sufficed;  blushing  deeply  over  her  cheeks  and  neck, 
she  sprung  from  my  arms,  and  uttering  a faint  cry,  staggered 
against  a tree.  In  an  instant  I saw  it  was  the  lovely  girl  I had 
met  in  the  morning,  and,  without  losing  a second,  I poured  out 
apologies  for  my  intrusion,  with  all  the  eloquence  I was  master 
of,  till  she  suddenly  interrupted  me  by  asking  if  I spoke  French  ? 
Scarcely  had  I recommenced  my  excuses  in  that  language,  wffien 
a third  party  appeared  upon  the  stage.  This  w^as  a short,  elderly 
man  in  a green  uniform,  with  several  decorations  upon  his 
breast,  and  a cocked  hat,  with  a most  flowing  plume,  in  his  right 
hand. 

“ May  I beg  to  know  whom  I have  the  honor  of  receiving?” 
inquired  he,  in  very  excellent  Englisli,  as  he  advanced,  with  a 
look  of  very  ceremonious  but  distant  politeness. 

I immediately  explained  that,  presuming  upon  the  card  which 
his  servant  had  presented  me,  I had  resolved  on  paying  my 
respects,  when  a mistake  had  led  me  accidentally  into  his 
garden. 

My  apologies  had  not  come  to  an  end  when  he  folded  me  in 
his  arms  and  overwhelmed  me  with  thanks;  at  the  same  time 
saying  a few  words  in  Portuguese  to  his  daughter;  she  stooped 
down,  and  taking  my  hand  gently  within  her  own,  touched  it 
vrith  her  lips. 

This  piece  of  touching  courtesy — which  I afterward  found 
meant  little  or  nothing — affected  me  deeply  at  the  time,  and  I 
felt  the  blood  rush  to  my  face  and  forehead,  half  in  pride,  half 
in  a sense  of  shame.  My  confusion  was,  however,  of  short  dura- 
tion; for,  taking  my  arm, ^ the  old  gentleman  led  me  along  a few 
paces,  and  turning  round  a small  clump  of  olives,  entered  a Jittle 
summer-house.  Here  a considerable  party  were  assembled, 
which,  for  their  picturesque  effect,  could  scarcely  have  been 
better  managed  on  the  stage. 

Beneath  the  mild  luster  of  a large  lamp  of  stained  glass,  half 
hid  in  the  overhanging  boughs,  was  spread  a table,  covered  with 
vessels  of  gold  and  silver  plate,  of  gorgeous  richness:  drinking 
cups  and  goblets  of  antique  pattern,  shone  among  cups  of  Sevres 
china  or  Venetian  glass;  delicious  fruit,  looking  a thousand 
tinies  more  tempting  for  being  contained  in  baskets  of  silver 
foliage,  peered  from  amid  a profusion  of  fresh  flowers,  whose 
odor  was  continually  shed  around  by  a slight /ef  d’  eau  that  played 
among  the  leaves.  Around,  upon  the  grass,  sea  ted  upon  cush- 
ions, or  reclining  on  Genoa  carpets,  were  several  beautiful  girls, 
in  most  becoming  costumes,  their  dark  locks  and  darker  eyes 
speaking  of  “the  soft  south,”  while  their  expressive  gestures 
and  animated  looks  betokened  a race  whose  temperament  is 
glowing  as  their  clime.  There  were  several  men  also,  the  greater 


212 


CHABLE8  SMALLEY. 


xumber  of  whom  appeared  in  uniform — bronzed  soldier-like  fel- 
lows, who  had  the  jaunty  air  and  easy  carriage  of  their  calling 
— among  whom  was  one  Englishman,  or  at  least  so  I guessed 
from  his  wearing  the  uniform  of  a heavy  dragoon  regiment. 

“This  is  my  daughter’s  /efc,”  said  Don  Emanuel,  as  he  ush- 
ered me  into  the  assembly;  “ her  birthday;  a sad  day  it  might 
have  been  for  us,  had  it  not  been  for  your  courage  and  fore- 
thought.” So  saying,  he  commenced  a recital  of  my  adventures 
to  the  by-standers,  who  overwhelmed  me  with  civil  speeches 
and  a shower  of  soft  looks,  that  completed  the  fascination  of 
the  fairy  scene.  Meanwhile,  the  fair  Inez  had  made  room  for 
me  beside  her,  and  I found  myself  at  once  the  lion  of  the  party; 
each  vying  with  her  neighbor  who  should  show  me  most  atten- 
tion. La  Senora  herself  directed  her  attention  exclusively  to 
me;  a circumstance  which,  considering  the  awkwardness  of  our 
first  meeting,  I felt  no  small  surprise  at,  and  which  led  me, 
somewhat  maliciously  I confess,  to  make  a half  allusion  to  it, 
feeling  some  interest  at  ascertaining  for  whom  the  flattering  re- 
ception was  really  intended. 

“ I thought  you  were  Charles,”  said  she  blushing,  in  answer  to 
my  question. 

“And  you  were  right,”  said  I,  “ I am  Charles.” 

“ Nay,  but  I meant  my  Charles.” 

There  was  something  of  touching  softness  in  the  tones  of 
those  few  words  that  made  me  half  wish  I were  her  Charles. 
Whether  my  look  evinced  as  much,  or  not,  I cannot  tell;  but  she 
speedily  added: 

“He  is  my  brother;  he  is  captain  in  the  cacadores,  and  I ex- 
pected him  here  this  evening.  Some  one  saw  a figure  pass  the 
gate  and  conceal  himself  in  the  trees,  and  I was  sure  it  was 
he.” 

“ What  a disappointment!”  said  I. 

“Yes,  was  it  not,”  said  she,  hurriedly;  and  then,  as  if  re- 
membering how  ungracious  was  the  speech,  she  blushed  more 
deeply,  and  hung  down  her  head. 

Just  at  this  moment,  as  I looked  up,  I caught  the  eye  of  the 
English  officer  fixed  steadfastly  upon  me.  He  was  a tall,  fine- 
looking  fellow,  of  about  two  or  three  and  thirty,  with  marked 
and  handsome  features,  which,  however,  conveyed  an  expres- 
sion of  something  sneering  and  sinister,  that  struck  me  the 
moment  I saw  him.  His  glass  was  fixed  in  his  eye,  and  I per- 
ceived that  he  regarded  us  both  with  a look  of  no  common  in- 
terest. My  attention  did  not,  however,  dwell  long  upon  the  cir- 
cumstance for  Don  Emanuel,  coming  behind  my  shoulder,  asked 
me  if  I would  not  take  out  his  daughter  in  the  bolero  they  were 
just  forming. 

To  my  shame  I was  obliged  to  confess  that  I had  never  even 
seen  the  dance;  and,  while  I continued  to  express  my  resolve  to 
correct  the  errors  of  my  education,  the  Englishman  came  up 
and  asked  the  Senora  to  be  his  partner.  This  put  the  very  key- 
stone upon  my  annoyance,  and  I half  turned  angrily  away 
from  the  spot,  when  I heard  her  decline  his  invitation,  and 
avow  her  determination  not  to  dance. 


CHARLES  OMALLEY, 


^13 


There  was  something  which  pleased  me  so  much  at  this  re- 
fusal that  I could  not  help  turning  upon  her  a look  of  most 
grateful  acknowledgment;  but,  as  I did  so,  I once  more  encounb 
ered  the  gaze  of  the  Englishman,  whose  knitted  brows  and 
compressed  lips  were  benr  upon  me  in  a manner  there  was  no 
mistaking.  This  was  neither  the  fitting  time  nor  place  to  seel^ 
omy  explanation  of  the  circumstance;  so  wisely  resolving  to  wait 
a better  occasion,  I turned  away,  and  resumed  my  attentions 
toward  my  fair  companion. 

“ Then  you  don’t  care  for  the  bolero  ?”  said  I,  as  she  re-seated 
herself  upon  the  grass. 

“ Oh!  I delight  in  it,”  said  she,  enthusiastically. 

But  you  refused  to  dance  ?” 

She  hesitated,  blushed,  tried  to  mutter  something,  and  waa 
silent. 

“I  had  determined  to  learn  it,”  said  I,  half  jestingly;  “ but  if 
you  will  not  dance  with  me ” 

‘‘Yes;  that  I will — indeed  I will.” 

“ But  you  declined  my  countryman.  Is  it  because  he  is  inex- 
pert ?” 

The  Senora  hesitated;  looked  confused  for  some  minutes;  at 
length,  coloring  slightly,  she  said:  “ I have  already  made  one 
rude  speech  to  yoii  this  evening;  I fear  lest  I shall  make  a sec- 
ond. Tell  me,  is  Captain  Trevyllian  your  friend  ?” 

“ If  you  mean  that  gentleman  yonder,  I never  saw  him  be- 
fore.” 

“Nor  heard  of  him  ?” 

“Nor  that  either.  We  are  total  strangers  to  each  other.” 

“ Well,  then,  I may  confess  it.  I do  not  like  him.  My  father 
prefers  him  to  any  one  else,  invites  him  daily  here,  and,  in  fact, 
installs  him  as  his  first  favorite.  But  still  I cannot  like  him;  an(J 
yet  I have  done  my  best  to  do  so.” 

“Indeed!”  said  I,  pointedly.  “ What  are  his  chief  demerits? 
Is  he  not  agreeable  ? is  he  not  clever  ?” 

“ Oh!  oh  the  contrary,  most  agreeable;  fascinating,  I should 
say,  in  conversation;  has  traveled;  seen  a great  deal  of  the 
world;  is  very  accomplished,  and  has  distinguished  himself 
on  several  occasions;  he  wears,  as  you  see,  a Portuguese  order.” 

“And,  with  all  that ” 

“And  with  all  that  I cannot  bear  him.  He  is  a duelht,  a 
notorious  duelist.  My  brother,  too,  knows  more  of  him,  and 
avoids  him.  But  let  us  not  speak  further;  I see  his  eyes  are 
again  fixed  on  us;  and,  somehow,  I fear  him,  without  well  know- 
ing wherefore.” 

A movement  among  the  party;  shawls  and  mantillas  were 
sought  for  on  all  sides;  and  the  preparations  for  leave-taking 
appeared  general.  Before,  however,  I had  time  to  express  my 
thanks  for  my  hospitable  reception,  the  guests  had  assembled  in 
a circle  around  the  Senora,  and,  toasting  her  with  a parting 
bumper,  they  commenced  in  concert  a little  Portuguese  song  of 
farewell;  each  verse  concluding  with  a good-night,  which,  as 
they  separated  and  held  their  way  homeward,  might  now  and 
then  be  heard,  rising  upon  the  breeze,  and  wafting  their  last 


214 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


thoughts  back  to  her.  The  concluding  verse,  which  struck  me 
mucli,  I have  essayed  to  translate.  It  ran  somehow  thus; 

The  morning  breezes  chill 
Now  close  our  jo3'Ous  scene, 

And  yet  we  linger  sti]l, 

Where  we’ve  so  happy  been. 

How  blest  were  it  to  live, 

With  hearts  like  ours  so  light, 

And  only  part  to  give 
One  long  and  last  Good-night, 

Good-night! 

With  many  an  invitation  to  renew  my  visit,  most  kindly  pre- 
ferred by  Don  Emanuel,  and  warmly  seconded  by  his  daughter, 
I,  too,  wished  my  good-night,  and  turned  my  steps  homeward. 


CHAPTEK  XXXIX. 

THE  VILLA. 

The  first  object  which  presented  itself  to  my  eye,  the  next 
morning,  was  the  midshipman’s  packet,  intrusted  to  my  care  by 
Power.  I turned  it  over  to  read  the  address  more  carefully,  and 
what  was  vny  surprise  to  find  that  the  name  was  that  of  my 
fair  friend,  Donna  Inez! 

“ This  certainly  thickens  the  plot,”  thought  I;  “ and  so  I have 
now  fallen  upon  the  real  Simon  Pare,  and  the  reefer  has  had  the 
good  fortune  to  distance  the  dragoon.  Well,  thus  much,  I can- 
not say  that  I regret  it.  Now,  however,  for  the  parade,  and  then 
for  the  villa.” 

‘‘I  say,  O’Malley,”  cried  out  Monsoon,  as  I appeared  on  the 
plaza,  ‘‘  I have  accepted  an  invitation  for  you  to-day.  We  dine 
across  the  river.  Be  at  my  quarters  a little  before  six,  and  well 
go  together.” 

I should  rather  have  declined  the  invitation,  but  not  well 
knowing  why,  and  having  no  ready  excuse,  acceded  and  prom- 
ised to  be  punctual. 

“You  were  at  Don  Emanuel’s  last  night;  I heard  of  you.” 

“ Yes;  I spent  a most  delightful  evening.” 

“ That’s  your  ground,  my  boy;  a million  of  moidores,  and 
such  a campagna  in  Valencia;  a better  thing  than  the  Dairy m pie 
affair.  Don’t  blush.  I know  it  all.  But  stay;  here  they  come.” 

As  he  spoke,  the  general  commanding,  with  a numerous  staff, 
rode  forward.  As  they  passed,  I recognized  a face  which  I had 
certainly  seen  before,  and  in  a moment  remembered  it  was  that 
of  the  dragoon  of  the  evening  before.  He  passed  quite  close, 
and,  fixing  his  eyes  steadfastly  on  me,  evinced  no  sign  of 
recognition. 

The  parade  lasted  above  two  hours,  and  it  was  with  a feeling 
of  impatience  I mounted  a fresh  horse  to  canter  out  to  the  villa. 
When  I arrived,  the  servant  informed  me  that  Don  Emanuel 
was  in  the  city,  but  that  the  Senora  was  in  the  garden;  offering, 
at  the  same  time,  to  escort  me.  Declining  this  honor,  I intrust- 
ed my  horse  to  his  keeping,  and  took  my  way  toward  the  arbor 
where  last  I had  seen  her. 


CHARLES  amALLET. 


21^ 

I had  not  walked  many  paces  when  the  sound  of  a guitar 
struck  on  my  ear.  I listened.  It  was  the  Senora’s  voice.  She 
was  singing  a Venetian  canzonetta,  in  a low,  soft,  warbling  tone, 
as  one  lost  in  a reverie,  as  though  the  music  was  a mere  accompani- 
ment to  some  pleasant  thought.  I peeped  through  the  dense 
leaves,  and  there  she  sat  upon  a low  garden  seat;  an  open  book 
on  the  rustic  table  before  her;  beside  her,  embroidery,  which 
seemed  only  lately  abandoned.  As  I looked,  she  placed  her 
guitar  upon  the  ground,  and  began  to  play  with  a small  spaniel, 
that  seemed  to  have  waited  with  impatience  for  some  testimony 
of  favor.  A moment  more,  and  she  grew  weary  of  this,  then 
heaving  a long  but  gentle  sigh,  leaned  back  upon  her  chair,  and 
seemed  lost  in  thought;  I now  had  ample  time  to  regard  her, 
and,  certainly,  never  beheld  anything  more  lovely.  There  was 
a character  of  classic  beauty,  and  her  brow,  though  fair  and 
ample,  was  still  strongly  marked  upon  the  temples;  the  eyes, 
being  deep  and  squarely  set,  imparted  a look  of  intensity  to  her 
features,  which  their  own  softness  alone  subdued;  while  the 
short  upper  lip,  which  trembled  with  every  passing  thought, 
spoke  of  a nature  tender  and  impressionable,  and  yet  impassioned. 
Her  foot  and  ankle  peeped  from  beneath  her  dark  robe,  and, 
certainly,  nothing  could  be  more  faultless;  while  her  hand,  fair 
as  marble,  blue-veined  and  dimpled,  played  amid  the  long 
tresses  of  her  hair  that,  as  if  in  the  wantonness  of  beauty,  fell 
carelessly  upon  her  shoulders. 

It  was  some  time  before  I could  tear  myself  from  the  fascina- 
tion of  so  much  beauty,  and  it  needed  no  common  effort  to  leave 
the  spot.  As  I made  a short  detour  in  the  garden  before  ap- 
proaching the  arbor,  she  saw  me  as  I came  forward,  and  kissing 
her  hand  gayly,  made  room  for  me  beside  her. 

“ I have  been  fortunate  in  finding  you  alone,  Senora,”  said  I, 
as  I seated  myself  by  her  side;  ‘‘  for  I am  the  bearer  of  a letter 
to  you.  How  far  it  may  interest  you  I know  not,  but  to  the 
writer’s  feelings  I am  bound  to  testify.” 

“ A letter  to  me  ? you  jest,  surely.” 

“ That  I am  in  earnest  this  will  show,”  said  I,  producing  the 
packet. 

She  took  it  from  my  hands,  turned  it  about  and  about,  ex- 
amined the  seal,  while,  half-doubtingly,  she  said: 

“ The  name  is  mine;  but  still ” 

“You  fear  to  open  it;  is  it  not  so?  But,  after  all,  you  need 
not  be  surprised  if  it’s  from  Howard;  that’s  his  name,  I think.” 

“Howard!  from  little  Edward!”  exclaimed  she,  enthusiastic- 
ally; and,  tearing  open  the  letter,  she  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  her 
eyes  sparkling  with  pleasure,  and  her  cheeks  glowing  as  she  read. 
I watched  her  as  she  ran  rapidly  over  the  lines;  and  I confess 
that,  more  than  once,  a pang  of  discontent  shot  through  my 
heart  that  the  midshipman’s  letter  should  call  up  such  interest; 
not  that  I was  in  love  with  lier  myself,  but  yet,  I know  not  liow 
it  was,  I had  fancied  her  affections  unengaged,  and,  without  ask- 
ing myself  wherefore,  I wished  as  much. 

“ Poor  dear  boy!”  said  she  as  she  came  to  the  end. 

How  these  few  simple  words  sank  into  my  heart  as  I remem- 


216 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


bered  how  they  had  once  been  uttered  to  myself,  and  in  perhaps 
no  very  dissimilar  circumstances! 

“ But  where  is  the  souvenir  he  speaks  of?'’  said  she. 

“ The  souvenir  ? I’m  not  aware ” 

“ Oh,  I hope  you  have  not  lost  the  lock  of  hair  he  sent  mel” 

I was  quite  dumbfounded  at  this,  and  could  not  remember 
whether  I had  received  it  from  Power  or  not;  so  answered  at 
random : 

“Yes;  I must  have  left  it  on  my  table.” 

“ Promise  me,  then,  to  bring  it  to-morrow  with  you.” 

“ Certainly,”  said  I,  with  something  of  pique  in  my  manner. 
“ If  I find  such  means  of  making  my  visit  an  agreeable  one  I, 
shall  certainly  not  omit  it.” 

“You  are  quite  right,”  said  she,  either  not  noticing  or  not 
caring  for  the  tone  of  my  reply.  “ You  will,  indeed,  be  a wel- 
come messenger.  Do  you  know,  he  was  one  of  my  lovers  ?” 

“ One  of  them!  indeed!  Then  pray  liow  many  do  you  number 
at  this  moment  ?” 

“ What  a question!  as  if  I could  possibly  count  them.  Besides 
there  are  so  many  absent;  some  on  leave,  some  deserters,  per- 
haps, that  I might  be  reckoning  among  my  troops,  but  who,  pos- 
sibly, form  a part  of  the  forces  of  the  euemy.  Do  you  know 
little  Howard?” 

“I  cannot  say  that  we  are  personally  acquainted,  but  I am 
enabled,  through  the  medium  of  a friend,  to  say,  that  his  senti- 
ments are  not  strange  to  me.  Besides,  I have  really  pledged  my- 
self to  support  the  prayer  of  his  petition.” 

“ How  very  good  of  you!  for  which  reason,  you’ve  forgotten, 
if  not  lost,  the  lock  of  hair.” 

“That  you  shall  have  to-morrow,”  said  I,  pressing  my  hand 
solemnly  to  my  heart. 

“ Well,  then,  don’t  forget  it;  but  hush;  here  comes  Captain 
Trevyllian.  So  you  say  Lisbon  really  pleases  you,”  said  she,  in 
a tone  of  voice  totally  changed,  as  the  dragoon  of  the  preced- 
ing evening  approached. 

“ Mr.  O'Malley,  Captain  Trevyllian.” 

We  bow'ed  stiffiy  and  haughtily  to  each  other,  as  two  men 
salute  who  are  unavoidably  obliged  to  bow,  with  every  wish  on 
either  side  to  avoid  acquaintance.  So,  at  least,  I construed  his 
bow;  so  I certainly  intended  my  own. 

It  requires  no  common  tact  to  give  conversation  the  appear- 
ance of  unconstraint  and  ease  when  it  is  evident  that  each  per- 
son opposite  is  laboring  under  excited  feelings;  so  that,  notwith- 
standing the  Sen  ora’s  efforts  to  engage  our  attention  by  the 
commonplaces  of  the  day,  we  remained  almost  silent,  and,  after 
a few  observations  of  no  interest,  took  our  several  leaves.  Here 
again  a new  source  of  awkvrardness  arose;  for,  as  "we  walked 
together  toward  the  house,  where  our  horses  stood,  neither 
party  seemed  disposed  to  speak. 

“You  are  probably  returning  to  Lisbon  ?”  said  he,  coldly. 

I assented  by  a bow.  Upon  which,  drawing  his  bridle  within 
bis  arm,  he  bowed  once  more,  and  turned  away  in  an  opposite 


CHARLES  CMALLEY.  m 

direction;  while  I,  glad  to  be  relieved  of  an  unsought-for  com- 
panionship, returned  alone  to  the  town. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THE  DINNER. 

It  was  with  no  peculiar  pleasure  that  I dressed  for  our  dinner 
party.  Major  O’Shaughnessy,  our  host,  was  one  of  that  class  of 
my  countrymen  I cared  least  for — a riotous,  good-natured,  noisy, 
loud- swearing,  punch-drinking  westerner;  full  of  stories  of  impose 
sible  fox-hunts  and  unimaginable  duels,  which  all  were  acted 
either  by  himself  or  some  member  of  his  family.  The  company 
consisted  of  the  Adjutant,  Monsoon,  Ferguson,  Trevyllian,  and 
some  eight  or  ten  officers  with  whom  I was  unacquainted.  As 
is  usual  on  such  occasions,  the  wine  circulated  freely,  and,  amid 
the  din  and  clamor  of  excited  conversation,  the  fumes  of  bur- 
gundy, and  the  vapor  of  cigar  smoke,  we  most  of  us  became 
speedily  mystified.  As  for  me,  my  evil  destiny  would  have  it 
that  I was  placed  exactly  opposite  Trevyllian,  with  whom,  upon 
more  than  one  occasion,  I happened  to  differ  in  opinion,  and  the 
question  was  in  itself  some  trivial  and  unimportant  one;  yet  the 
tone  which  he  assumed,  and  of  which  I,  too,  could  not  divest  my- 
self in  reply,  boded  anything  rather  than  an  amicable  feeling 
between  us.  The  noise  and  turmoil  about  prevented  the  others 
remarking  the  circumstance;  but  I could  perceive  in  his  manner 
what  I deemed  a studied  determination  to  promote  a quarrel, 
while  I felt  within  myself  a most  unchristian-like  desire  to  in- 
dulge his  fancy. 

“Worse  fellows  at  passing  the  bottle  than  Trevyllian  and 
O’Malley  there,  I have  rarely  sojourned  with,”  cried  the  Major; 
“ look  if  they  haven't  got  eight  decanters  between  them:  and 
here  we  are  in  a state  of  African  thirst.” 

“How  can  you  expect  him  to  think  of  the  thirst  when  such 
perfumed  billets  as  that  come  showering  upon  him  ?”  said  the 
Adjutant,  alluding  to  a rose- colored  epistle  a servant  had  placed 
within  my  hands. 

“ Eight  miles  of  a stone- wall  country  in  fifteen  minutes!  devil 
a lie  in  it!”  said  O’Shaughnessy,  striking  the  table  with  his 
clinched  fists:  “ show  me  the  man  ’id  deny  it!” 

“ Why,  my  dear  fellow!” 

“ Don’t  be  dearing  me.  Is  it  no  you’ll  be  saying  to  me?  Listen 
now:  there’s  O’Reilly  there.  Where  is  he?  He’s  under  the 
table!  well,  it’s  the  same  thing.  His  mother  had  a fox-^bad 
luck  to  you,  don’t  scald  me  with  the  jug!  his  mother  had  a fox- 
cover  in  Shinrohan.” 

When  O’Shaughnessy  had  got  thus  far  in  his  narrative,  I had 
the  opportunity  of  opening  my  note,  which  merely  contained 
the  following  words:  “ Come  to  the  ball  at  the  Casino,  and  bring 
the  cadeau  you  promised  me.” 

I had  scarcely  read  this  over  once,  when  a roar  of  laughter  at 
something  said,  attracted  my  attention.  I looked  up  and  per- 
ceived Trevyllian ’s  eyes  bent  upon  me  with  the  fierceness  of  a 
tiger;  the  veins  of  his  forehead  were  swollen  and  distorted,  and 


m 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


the  whole  expression  of  his  face  betokened  rage  and  passion. 
Resolved  no  longer  to  submit  to  such  evident  determination  to 
insult,  I was  rising  from  my  place  at  table,  when,  as  if  anticipat- 
ing my  intention,  he  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  left  the  room. 
Fearful  of  attracting  attention  by  immediately  following  him,  I 
affected  to  join  in  the  conversation  around  me,  while  my  temples 
throbbed,  and  my  hands  tingled  with  impatience  to  get  away. 

“Poor  M’Manus,”  said  O’Shaughnessy,  “rest  his  soul,  he'd 
have  puzzled  the  bench  of  bishops  for  hard  words;  upon  my  con- 
science I believe  he  spent  his  mornings  looking  for  them  in  the 
Old  Testament;  sure  ye  might  have  heard  what  happened  to  him; 
at  Banagher,  when  he  commanded  the  Kilkennys — ye  never 
heard  the  story;  well,  then,  ye  shall;  push  the  sherry  along 
first  though — old  Monsoon  there  always  keeps  it  lingering  beside 
his  left  arm! 

“Well,  when  Peter  was  lieutenant-colonel  of  the  Kilkennys — 
who,  I may  remark,  en  passant,  as  the  French  say,  were  the 
seediest-looking  devils  in  the  service,  he  never  let  them  alone 
from  morning  until  night,  drilling  and  pipe-claying,  and  polish- 
ing them  u]3!  Nothing  will  make  soldiers  of  you,  said  Peter;  but, 
by  the  rock  of  Ca«hel,  I’ll  keep  you  as  clean  as  a new  musket! 
Now,  poor  Peter  himself  was  not  a very  warlike  figure;  he 
measured  five  feet  one  in  his  tallest  boots;  but,  certainly,  if 
nature  denied  him  length  of  stature,  she  compensated  him  for 
it  in  another  way,  by  giving  him  a taste  for  the  longest  words 
in  the  language!  An  extra  syllable  or  so  in  a word,  was  always 
a strong  recommendation;  and,  whenever  he  could  not  find  one 
to  his  mind,  he’d  take  some  quaint  outlandish  one,  that  more 
than  once  led  to  very  awkward  results.  Well,  the  regiment  was 
one  day  drawn  up  for  parade  in  the  town  of  Banagher,  and,  as 
M’Manus  came  down  the  lines,  he  stopped  opposite  one  of  the 
men,  whose  face,  hands,  and  accouterments  exhibited  a most 
woful  contempt  of  his  orders.  The  fellow  looked  more  like  a 
turf -stack  than  a light-company  man!  ‘Stand  out,  sir!’ cried 
M’Manus,  in  a boiling  passion.  " ‘ Sergeant  O’Toole,  inspect  this 
individual.’  Now  the  sergeant  was  rather  a favorite  with  Mac; 
for  he  always  pretended  to  understand  his  phraseology,  and,  in 
consequence,  was  pronounced  by  the  colonel  a very  superior 
man  for  his  station  in  life.  ‘ Sergeant,’  said  he,  ‘ we  shall  make 
an  exemplary  illustration  of  our  system  here!’ 

“ ‘ Yes,  sir,’  said  the  sergeant,  sorely  puzzled  at  the  meaning 
of  what  he  spoke! 

“ ‘ Bear  him  to  the  Shannon,  and  lave  him  there;’  this  he  said 
in  a kind  of  Coriolanus  tone,  with  a toss-up  of  his  head,  and  a 
wave  of  his  right  arm;  signs,  whenever  he  made  them,  incon- 
testably showing  that  further  parley  was  out  of  the  question, 
and  that  he  had  summed  up  and  charged  the  jury  for  good  and 
all. 

him  in  the  river?’  said  O’Toole,  his  eyes  starting 
from  their  sockets,  and  his  whole  face  working  in  strong 
anxiety:  ‘ is  it  lave  him  in  the  river,  your  honor  means  ?’ 

“‘I  have  spoken,’  said  the  little  man,  bending  an  ominouS 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY.  219 

frown  upon  the  sergeant;  which,  whatever  construction  he 
might  have  put  upon  his  words,  tliere  was  no  mistaking. 

“ ‘ Well,  well,  av  it’s  God’s  will  he’s  drowned,  it  will  not  be  on 
my  head,’  said  OToole,  as  he  marched  the  fellow  away  between 
two  rank  and  file. 

“ The  parade  was  nearly  over  when  Mac  happened  to  see  the 
sergeant  coming  up,  all  splashed  with  water,  and  looking  quite 
tired. 

“ ‘ Have  you  obeyed  my  orders  ?’  said  he. 

“ ‘ Yes,  yer  honor;  and  tough  work  we  had  of  it,  for  he  strug- 
gled hard!’ 

“ ‘ And  where  is  he  now  ?’ 

“ ‘ Oh,  troth,  he’s  there  safe!  divil  a fear  he’ll  get  out!’ 

“ ‘ Where  ?’  said  Mac. 

‘ In  the  river,  yer  honor,’ 

“ ‘What  have  you  done,  you  scoundrel?’ 

“ ‘ Didn’t  I do  as  you  bid  me  ?’  says  he,  ‘ didn’t  I throw  him  in, 
and  lave  [leave]  him  there  ?’  And  faith,  so  they  did,  and  it*  he 
wasn’t  a good  swimmer,  and  got  over  to  Moystown,  there’s  little 
doubt  but  he'd  have  been  drowned,  and  all  because  Peter 
M’Manus  could  not  express  himself  like  a Christian.” 

In  the  laughter  which  followed  O'Shaughnessy’s  story,  I took 
the  opportunity  of  making  my  escape  from  the  party,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  gaining  the  street  unobserved.  Though  the  note  I had 
just  read  was  not  signed,  I had  no  doubt  from  whom  it  came;  so 
I hastened  at  once  to  my  quarters,  to  make  search  for  the  lock 
of  Joe  Howard’s  hair,  to  which  the  Senora  alluded.  What  was 
my  mortification,  however,  to  discover  that  no  such  thing  could 
be  found  anywhere!  I searched  all  my  drawers,  I tossed  about 
my  papers  and  letters;  I hunted  every  likely,  every  unlikely  spot 
I could  think  of,  but  in  vain ; now  cursing  my  carelessness  for 
having  lost  it;  now  swearing  most  solemnly  to  myself  that  I 
never  could  have  received  it.  What  was  to  be  done  ? it  was  al- 
ready late;  my  only  thought  was  howto  replace  it.  If  I only 
knew  the  color,  any  other  lock  of  hair  would,  doubtless,  do  just 
as  well.  The  chances  were,  as  Howard  was  young,  and  an  En- 
glishman, that  his  hair  was  light;  light-brown,  probably;  some- 
thing like  my  own.  Of  course  it  was!  why  didn’t  that  thought 
occur  to  me  before?  how  stupid  I was!  So  saying,  I seized  a pair 
of  scissors  and  cut  a long  lock  beside  my  temple;  this,  in  a calm 
moment,  I might  have  hesitated  about.  Yes,  thought  I,  sheTl 
never  discover  the  cheat;  and  besides,  I do  feel — I know  not  ex- 
actly why— rather  gratified  to  think  that  I shall  have  left  this 
souvenir  "behind  me,  even  though  it  call  up  other  recollections 
than  of  me.  So  thinking,  I wrapped  my  cloak  about  me,  and 
hastened  toward  the  Casino. 


CHAPTER  XLL 

THE  ROUTE. 

I HAD  scarcely  gone  a hundred  yards  from  my  quarters,  when 
the  great  tramp  of  horses’  feet  attracted  my  attention.  I 
stopped  to  listen,  and  soon  heard  the  jingle  of  dragoon  accouter- 


220 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


ments,  as  the  noise  came  nearer.  The  night  was  dark,  but  per- 
fectly still;  and  before  I stood  many  minutes,  I heard  the  tones 
of  a voice,  which  I well  knew  could  belong  to  but  one,  and  that, 
Fred  Power. 

Fred  Power!”  said  I,  shouting  at  the  same  time  at  the  top  of 
my  voice.  ‘‘Power!” 

“Ah,  Charley,  that  you?  come  along  to  the  Adjutant-General's 
quarters.  Pm  charged  with  some  important  dispatches,  and 
can’t  stop  till  I’ve  delivered  them.  Come  along.  I’ve  glorious 
nev/s  for  you!”  So  saying  he  dashed  spurs  to  his  horse,  and,  fol- 
I lowed  by  ten  mounted  dragoons,  galloped  past.  Powers  few 
and  hurried  words  had  so  excited  my  curiosity,  that  I turned  at 
once  to  follow  him,  questioning  myself  as  I walked  along,  to 
what  he  could  possibly  allude.  He  knew  of  my  attachment  to 
Lucy  Dashwood — could  he  mean  anything  of  her?  but  what 
could  I expect  there?  by  what  flattery  could  I picture  to  myself 
any  chance  of  success  in  that  quarter?  and  yet,  what  other  news 
could  I care  for  or  value,  than  what  bore  upon  her  fate  upon 
whom  my  own  depended.  Thus  ruminating,  I reached  the  door 
of  the  spacious  building  in  which  the  Adjutant-General  had 
taken  up  his  abode,  and  soon  found  myself  among  a crowd  of 
persons  whom  the  rumor  of  some  important  event  had  assembled 
there,  though  no  one  could  tell  what  had  occurred.  Before  many 
minutes  the  door  opened  and  Power  came  out  bowing  hurriedly 
to  a few,  and,  whispering  a word  or  two  as  he  passed  down  the 
steps,  he  seized  me  by  the  arm  and  led  me  across  the  street. 
“Charley,”  said  he,  “ the  curtain’s  rising;  the  piece  is  about  to 
begin;  anew  Commander-in-Chief  is  sent  out;  Sir  Arthur  Welles- 
ley, my  boy,  the  flnest  fellow  in  England,  is  to  head  us  on, 
and  we  march  to-morrow.  There’s  news  for  you!”  A raw  boy, 
unread,  uniformed  as  I was,  I knew  but  little  of  his  career 
whose  name  had  even  then  shed  such  luster  upon  our  army;  but 
the  buoyant  tone  of  Power  as  he  spoke,  the  kindling  energy  of 
his  voice  aroused  me,  and  I felt  every  inch  a soldier.  As  I grasp- 
ed his  hand  in  delightful  enthusiasm,  I lost  all  memory  of  my 
disappointment,  and,  in  the  beating  throb  that  shook  my  head,  I 
felt  how  deeply  slept  the  ardor  of  military  glory  that  flrst  led  me 
from  my  home  to  see  a battle-fleld. 

“ There  goes  the  news!”  said  Frederick,  pointing  as  he  spoke 
to  a rocket  that  shot  up  into  the  sky,  and  as  it  broke  into  ten 
thousand  stars,  illuminated  the  broad  streams  where  the  ships 
of  war  lay  darkly  resting;  in  another  moment,  the  whole  air 
shone  with  similar  fires,  while  the  deep  roll  of  the  drum  sound- 
ed along  the  silent  streets,  and  the  city,  so  lately  sunk  in  sleep, 
became,  as  if  by  magic,  thronged  with  crowds  of  people;  the 
sharp  clang  of  the  cavalry  trumpet  blended  with  the  gay  carol 
of  the  light-infantry  bugle,  and  the  heavy  tramp  of  the  march 
was  heard  in  the  distance.  All  was  excitement,  all  bustle;  but 
in  the  joyous  tone  of  every  voice,  was  spoken  the  longing 
anxiety  to  meet  the  enemy;  the  gay  reckless  tone  of  an  Irish 
song  would  occasionally  reach  us,  as  some  Connaught  ranger, 
or  some  Seventy-eight  man  passed,  his  knapsack  on  his  back;  or 
the  low  monotonous  pibroch  of  the  Highlander,  swelling  into  a 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


221 


war-cry,  as  some  kilted  corps  drew  up  their  ranks  together.  We 
turned  to  regain  our  quarters,  when,  at  the  corner  of  a street, 
we  came  suddenly  upon  a merry  party,  seated  around  a table, 
before  a little  inn;  a large  street  lamp,  unhung  for  the  occasion, 
had  been  placed  in  the  midst  of  them,  and  showed  us  the  figures 
of  several  soldiers  in  undress  at  the  end,  and,  raised  a little 
above  his  compeers,  sat  one,  whom,  by  the  unfair  proportion  he 
assumed  of  the  conversation  not  less  than  by  the  musical  into- 
nation of  his  voice,  I soon  recognized  as  my  man,  Mickey  Free. 

“ I’ll  be  hanged,  if  that’s  not  your  fellow  there,  Charley,”  said 
Power,  as  he  came  to  a dead  stop  a few  yards  off. 

“ What  an  impertinent  varlet  he  is!  only  to  think  of  him  there, 
presiding  among  a set  of  fellows  that  have  fought  all  the  battles 
in  the  peninsular  war.  At  this  moment  I’ll  be  hanged  if  he  is 
not  going  to  sing.” 

Here  a tremendous  thumping  upon  the  table  announced  the 
fact,  and,  after  a few  preliminary  observations  from  Mike,  illus- 
trative of  his  respect  to  the  service,  in  which  he  had  so  often 
distinguished  himself,  he  began  the  air  of  the  “ Young  May 
Moon,”  a ditty,  of  which  I only  recollect  the  following  verses: 

“THE  YOUNG  MAY  MOON.” 

“ The  pickets  are  fast  retreating,  boys; 

The  last  tattoo  is  beating,  boys; 

So  let  every  man 
Finish  his  can. 

And  drink  to  our  next  merry  meeting,  boys! 

“ The  colonel  so  gayly  prancing,  boys.'' 

Has  a wonderful  trick  of  advancing,  boysl 
When  he  sings  out  so  large, 

‘ Fix  bayonets  and  charge,’ 

He  sets  all  the  Frenchmen  a-dancing,  boys! 

“ Ler  Mounseer  look  ever  so  big,  my  boys, 

Who  cares  for  fighting  a fig,  my  boys, 

When  we  play  Garryowen, 

He’d  rather  go  home; 

For  somehow  he’s  no  taste  for  a jig,  my  boys.” 

This  admirable  lyric  seemed  to  have  a perfect  success,  if  one 
were  only  to  judge  from  the  thundering  of  voices,  hands,  and 
drinking  vessels,  which  followed:  while  a venerable  gray-haired 
sergeant  rose  to  propose  Mr.  Free’s  health,  and  speedy  promotion 
to  him. 

We  stood  for  several  minutes  in  admiration  of  the  party;  when 
the  load  roll  of  the  drums  beating  to  arms  awakened  us  to  the 
thoughts  that  our  moments  were  numbered. 

“Good- night,  Charley!”  said  Power,  as  he  shook  my  hand 
warmly;  “good-night!  It  will  be  your  last  night  under  a cur- 
tain for  some  months  to  come;  make  the  most  of  it.  Adieu!” 

So  saying,  we  parted;  he  to  his  quarters,  and  I to  all  the  con- 
fusion of  my  baggage,  which  lay  in  most  admired  disorder  about 
my  room. 


2ZZ 


CHARLES  OWALLEY. 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

THE  FAREWELL. 

The  preparations  for  the  march  occupied  me  till  near  morning; 
and,  indeed,  had  I been  disposed  to  sleep,  the  din  and  clamor  of 
the  world  without  would  have  totally  prevented  it.  Before  day- 
break the  advance  guard  was  already  in  motion,  and  some  squad- 
rons of  heavy  cavalry  had  begun  their  march. 

I looked  around  my  now  dismantled  room,  as  one  does  usually 
for  the  last  time  ere  leaving,  and  bethought  me  if  I had  not  for- 
gotten anything.  Apparently  all  was  remembered;  but  stay — 
what  is  this  ? To  be  sure,  how  forgetful  I had  become!  It  was 
the  packet  I destined  for  Donna  Inez,  and  which  in  the  confu- 
sion of  the  night  before,  I had  omitted  to  bring  to  the  Casino. 

I immediately  dispatched  Mike  to  the  commissary,  with  my 
luggage,  and  orders  to  ascertain  when  we  were  expected  to 
march.  He  soon  returned,  with  the  intelligence  that  our  corps 
was  not  to  move  before  noon;  so  that  I had  yet  some  hours  to 
spare  and  make  my  adieux  to  the  Senora. 

I cannot  exactly  explain  the  reason,  but  I certainly  did  bestow 
a more  than  common  attention  upon  my  toilet  that  morning. 
The  Senora  was  nothing  to  me.  It  is  true,  she  had,  as  she  lately 
most  candidly  informed  me,  a score  of  admirers,  among  which 
I was  not  even  reckoned;  she  was  evidently  a coquette,  whose 
greatest  pleasure  was  to  sport  and  amuse  herself  with  the  pas- 
sions she  excited  in  others.  And  even  if  she  were  not — if  her 
heart  were  to  be  won  to-morrow,  what  claim — what  right  had  I 
to  seek  it?  My  affections  were  already  pledged;  promised,  it  is 
true,  to  one  who  gave  nothing  in  return,  and  who,  perhaps,  even 
loved  another.  Ah,  there  was  the  rub!  that  one  confounded  sus- 
picion, lurking  in  the  rear,  chilled  my  courage,  and  piqued  my 
spirit. 

If  there  be  anything  more  disheartening  to  an  Irishman,  in  his 
little affairs  du  cceur,'’ thsm  another,  it  is  the  sense  of  rivalry. 
The  obstinacy  of  fathers,  the  ill-will  of  mothers,  the  coldness, 
the  indifference  of  the  lovely  object  herself — obstacles  though 
they  be,  he  has  tact,  spirit,  and  perseverance  to  overcome  them; 
but  when  a more  successful  candidate  for  the  fair  presents  him- 
self; when  the  eye  that  remains  downcast  at  his  suit,  lights  with 
animation  at  another’s  coming;  when  the  features,  whose  cold 
and  chilling  apathy  to  him  have  blended  in  one  smile  of  welcome 
to  another — it  is  all  up  with  him;  he  sees  the  game  lost,  and 
throws  his  cards  upon  the  table.  And  yet,  why  is  this? 
why  is  it  that  he,  whose  birth-right  it  would  seem  to  be 
sanguine  when  others  despond — to  be  confident  when  all  else  are 
hopeless — should  find  his  courage  fail  him  here  ? Tlie  reason  is 
simple — but,  in  good  sooth,  I am  ashamed  to  confess  it! 

Having  jogged  on  so  far  witli  my  reader,  in  all  the  sober  se- 
riousness which  the  matter-of-fact  material  of  these  memoirs 
demands,  I fear  lest  a seeming  paradox  may  cause  me  to  lose  my 
good  name  for  veracity;  and  that,  while  merely  maintaining  a 
national  trait  of  my  country,  I may  appear  to  be  asserting  somo 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


223 


unheard-of  and  absurd  proposition;  so  far  have  mere  vulgar 
prejudices  gone  to  sap  our  character  as  a people. 

The  reason,  then,  is  this — for  I have  gone  too  far  to  retreat — 
the  Irishman  is  essentially  bashful.  Well,  laugh  if  you  wish! 
for  I conclude  that,  by  this  time,  you  have  given  w^ay  to  a most 
immoderate  excess  of  risibility;  but  still,  when  you  have  perfect- 
ly recovered  your  composure,  I beg  i-o  repeat — the  Irishman  is 
essentially  a bashful  man! 

Do  not,  for  a moment,  fancy  that  I would  by  that  imply  that, 
in  any  new  or  unexpected  situation — that  for  any  unforeseen 
conjuncture  of  events — the  Irishman  would  feel  confused  or 
abashed  more  than  any  other;  far  from  it.  The  cold  and  habitual 
reserve  of  the  Englishman,  the  studied  caution  of  the  North 
Tweeder  himself,  would  exhibit  far  stronger  evidences  of  awk- 
wardness in  such  circumstances  as  these.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
when  measuring  his  capacity,  his  means  of  success,  his  proba- 
bilities of  being  preferred,  with  those  of  the  natives  of  any  other 
country,  I back  the  Irishman  against  the  world  for  distrust  of 
his  own  powers,  for  an  underestimate  of  his  real  merits;  in  one 
word,  for  his  bashfulness.  Look  at  Daniel  O’Connell!  look  at 
Spring  Rice!  look  at  Remrny  Sheehan!  But  I promised  faith- 
fully never  to  meddle  with  living  celebrities;  besides  that,  I am 
really  forgetting  myself  in  the  digression.  Let  us  return  to  Donna 
Inez. 

As  I rode  up  to  the  Villa,  I found  the  family  assembled  at 
breakfast.  Several  officers  were  also  present,  among  whom  I 
was  not  sorry  to  recognize  my  friend  Monsoon. 

“Ah,  Charley,”  cried  he,  as  I seated  myself  beside  him;  “ what 
a pity  all  our  fun  is  so  soon  to  have  an  end!  Here’s  this  con- 
founded Soult  won’t  be  quiet  and  peaceable;  but  he  rhust  march 
upon  Oporto,  and  Heaven  knows  where  besides,  just  as  we  were 
really  beginning  to  enjoy  life.  I had  got  such  a contract  for 
blankets,  and  now  they’ve  ordered  me  to  join  Beresford’s  corps 
in  the  mountains;  and  you  ” — here  he  dropped  his  voice — “ and 
you  were  getting  on  so  very  well  in  this  quarter;  upon  my  life, 
I think  you’d  have  carried  the  day,  old  Don  Emanuel,  you 
know,  he’s  a friend  of  mine,  he  likes  you  very  much.  And  then 
there’s  Sparks ” 

“Ay,  Major,  what  of  him?  I have  not  seen  him  for  some 
days.” 

“ Why,  they’ve  been  frightening  the  poor  fellow  out  of  his 
life.  O’Shaughnessy  and  a set  of  them — they  tried  him  by  court- 
martial  yesterday,  and  sentenced  him  to  mount  guard  with  a 
wooden  sword  and  a shooting  jacket,  which  he  did.  Old  Col- 
bourne,  it  seems,  saw  him;  and  faith,  there  would  be  the  devil 
to  pay  if  the  route  had  not  come.  Some  of  them  would  certainly 
have  got  a long  leave  to  see  their  friends.” 

“Why  is  not  the  Senora  here.  Major?  I don’t  see  her  at 
table.” 

“A  cold;  a sore  throat;  a wet-feet  affair  of  last  night,  I believe. 
Pass  that  cold  pie  down  here.  Sherry,  if  you  please.  You 
didn’t  see  Power  to-day  ?” 

“No;  we  parted  late  last  night;  I have  not  been  to  bed.’^ 


22i 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


«« Very  bad  preparations  for  a march;  take  some  burnt  brandy 
in  your  coffee.’’ 

Then  you  don’t  think  the  Senora  will  appear  ?” 

“ Very  unlikely — but  stay,  you  know  her  room — the  small 
drawing-room  that  looks  out  upon  the  flower-garden;  she  usually 
passes  the  morning  there.  Leap  the  little  wooden  paling  round 
the  corner,  and  the  chances  are  ten  to  one  you  find  her.  ” 

I saw  from  the  occupied  air  of  Don  Antonio  that  there  was 
little  fear  of  interruption  on  his  part,  so  taking  an  early  mo- 
ment to  escape  unobserved,  I rose  and  left  the  room.  When  I 
sprung  over  the  o.ak  fence  I found  myself  in  a delicious  little 
garden,  where  roses,  grown  to  a height  never  seen  in  our  colder 
climate,  formed  a deep  bower  of  rich  blossom. 

The  Major  was  right;  the  Senora  was  in  the  room,  and  in  one 
moment  I was  beside  her. 

“ Nothing  but  my  fears  of  not  bidding  you  farewell,  could 
palliate  my  thus  intruding,  Donna  Inez;  but  as  we  are  ordered 
away ” 

“ When  ? not  so  soon  surely?” 

“Even  so — to-day,  this  very  hour;  but  you  see  that  even  in 
the  hurry  of  departure  I have  not  forgotten  my  trust;  this  is  the 
packet  I promised  you.” 

So  saying,  I placed  the  paper  with  the  lock  of  hair  within  her 
hand,  and  bending  downward,  pressed  my  lips  upon  her  taper 
fingers.  She  hurriedly  snatched  her  hand  away,  and  tearing 
open  the  in  closure,  took  out  the  lock.  She  looked  steadily  for 
a moment  at  it,  then  at  me,  and  again  at  it,  and,  at  length, 
bursting  into  a fit  of  laughing,  threw  herself  upon  a chair  in  a 
very  ecstasy  of  mirth. 

“ Why,  you  don’t  mean  to  impose  this  auburn  ringlet  upon  me 
for  one  of  poor  Howard's  jetty  curls.  What  downright  folly  to 
think  of  it!  and  then,  with  how  little  taste  the  deception  was 
practiced — upon  your  very  temples,  too.  One  comfort  is,  you 
are  utterly  spoiled  by  it.” 

Here  she  again  relapsed  into  a fit  of  laughter,  leaving  me  per- 
fectly puzzled  what  to  think  of  her,  as  she  resumed: 

“ Well,  tell  me  now,  am  I to  reckon  this  as  a pledge  of  your 
own  allegiance,  or  am  I still  to  believe  it  to  be  Edward  Howard’s  ? 
Speak,  and  truly.” 

“Of  my  own,  most  certainly,”  said  I,  “if  it  will  be  ac- 
cepted.” 

“Why,  after  such  treachery,  perhaps  it  ought  not;  but,  still, 
as  you  have  already  done  yourself  such  injury,  and  look  so  very 
silly  withal ” 

“That  you  are  even  resolved  to  give  me  cause  to  look  more 
so,”  added  I. 

“ Exactly,”  said  she;  “ for  here,  now,  I reinstate  you  among 
my  true  and  faithful  admirers.  Kneel  down,  sir  knight,  in 
token  of  which  you  will  wear  this  scarf ” 

A sudden  start  which  the  donna  gave  at  these  w^ords  brought 
me  to  my  feet.  She  was  pale  as  death,  and  trembling. 

“ What  means  this  said  I.  “ What  has  happened  ?” 

She  pointed  with  her  finger  toward  the  garden,  but,  though 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


225 


her  lips  moved,  no  voice  came  forth.  I sprung  through  the 
opien  window.  I rushed  into  the  copse,  the  only  one  which 
might  afford  concealment  for  a figure,  but  no  one  was  there. 
After  a few  minutes’  vain  endeavor  to  discover  any  trace  of  an 
intruder,  I returned  to  the  chamber.  The  donna  was  there  still 
— but  how  changed;  her  gayety  and  animation  were  gone,  her 
pale  cheek  and  trembling  lip  bespoke  fear  and  suffering,  and 
her  cold  hand  lay  heavily  beside  her. 

“ I thought — perhaps  it  was  merely  fancy — but  I thought  I 
saw  Trevyllian  beside  the  window.” 

“ Impossible,”  said  I.  ‘‘I  have  searched  every  walk  and  alley. 
It  was  nothing  but  imagination — believe  me,  no  more.  There, 
be  assured;  think  no  more  of  it.” 

While  I endeavored  thus  to  reassure  her,  I was  very  far  from 
feeling  perfectly  at  ease  myself;  the  whole  bearing  and  conduct 
of  this  man  had  inspired  me  with  a growing  dislike  of  him,  and 
I felt  already  half  convinced  that  he  had  established  himself  as 
a spy  upon  my  actions. 

“ Then  you  really  believe  I was  mistaken,”  said  the  donna,  as 
she  placed  her  hand  within  mine. 

‘‘  Of  course  I do;  but  speak  no  more  of  it.  You  must  not  for- 
get how  few  my  moments  are  here.  Already  I have  heard  the 
tramp  of  horses  without — ah,  there  they  are — in  a moment  more 
I shall  be  missed,  so  once  more,  fairest  Inez — nay,  I beg  pardon 
if  I have  dared  to  call  you  thus;  but  think,  if  it  be  the  first  it 
may  also  be  the  last  time  I shall  ever  speak  it.” 

Her  head  gently  drooped  as  I said  these  words,  till  it  gently 
sunk  upon  my  shoulder,  her  long  and  heavy  hair  falling  upon 
my  neck  and  across  my  bosom.  I felt  her  heart  almost  beat 
against  my  side;  I muttered  some  words,  I know  not  what;  I 
felt  them  like  a prayer;  I pressed  her  cold  forehead  to  my  lips; 
rushed  from  the  room,  cleared  the  fence  at  a spring,  and  was 
far  upon  the  road  to  Lisbon  ere  I could  sufficiently  collect  m v 
senses  to  know  whither  I was  going.  Of  little  else  was  I con- 
scious; my  mind  was  full  to  bursting,  and,  in  the  confusion  of 
my  excited  brain,  fiction  and  reality  were  so  inextricably  min- 
gled as  to  defy  every  endeavor  at  discrimination.  But  little 
time  had  I for  reflection;  as  I reached  the  city,  the  brigade  to 
which  I was  attached  was  already  under  arms,  and  Mike  impa» 
tiently  waiting  my  arrival  with  the  horses. 


CHAPTEE  XLIII. 

THE  MARCH. 

What  a strange  spectacle  did  the  road  to  Oliviera  present 
upon  the  morning  of  the  7th  of  May.  A hurried  or  incautious 
observer  might,  at  first  sight,  have  pronounced  the  long  line  of 
troops  which  wended  their  way  through  the  valley,  as  the  re- 
mains of  a broken  and  routed  army,  had  not  the  ardent  expres- 
sion and  bright  eye,  that  beamed  on  every  side,  assured  him 
that  men  who  looked  thus  could  not  be  beaten  ones.  Horse, 
foot,  baggage,  artillery,  dismounted  dragoons,  even  the  pale  and 
scarcely  recovered  inhabitant  of  the  hospital,  might  have  been 


228 


CEABLES  O'MALLEY. 


seen  hurrying  on;  for  the  order — forward — had  been  given  at 
Lisbon,  and  those  whose  wounds  did  not  permit  their  joining, 
were  more  pitied  for  their  loss  than  its  cause.  More  than  one 
officer  was  seen  at  the  head  of  his  troop  with  an  arm  in  a sling, 
or  a bandaged  forehead,  while  among  the  men  similar  evidences 
of  devotion  were  not  unfrequent.  As  for  me,  long  years  and 
many  reverses  have  not  obliterated — scarcely  blunted — the  im- 
pression that  sight  made  on  me.  The  splendid  spectacle  of  a 
review  had  often  excited  and  delighted  me;  but  here,  there  was 
tke  glorious  reality  of  war;  the  bronzed  faces,  the  worn  uni- 
forms, the  well  tattered  flags,  the  roll  of  the  heavy  guns,  min- 
gling with  the  wild  pibroch  of  the  Highlander,  or  scarcely  less 
wild  recklessness  of  the  Irish  quick  step;  while  the  long  line  of 
cavalry,  the  helmets  and  accouterments  shining  in  the  morning 
sun,  brought  back  one’s  boyish  dreams  of  joust  amd  tournament, 
and  made  the  heart  beat  high  with  chivalrous  enthusiasm. 

“Yes,”  said  I,  half  aloud,  “this  is  indeed  a realization  of 
what  I have  longed  and  thirsted  for,”  the  clang  of  the  music  and 
the  tramp  of  the  cavalry  responding  to  my  throbbing  pulses  as 
we  moved  along. 

“ Close  up  there.  Trot,”  cried  out  a deep,  manly  voice;  and 
immediately  a general  officer  rode  by,  followed  by  an  aid- de- 
camp. 

“There  goes  Cotton,”  said  Power.  “You  may  feel  easy  in 
your  mind  now,  Charley;  there’s  some  work  before  us.” 

“ You  have  not  heard  our  destination  ?”  said  L 

“ Nothing  is  known  for  certain  yet.  The  report  goes  that 
Soult  is  advancing  upon  Oporto;  and  the  chances  are.  Sir  Arthur 
intends  to  hasten  us  to  its  relief.  Our  fellows  are  at  Ovar,  with 
General  Murray. 

“I  say,  Charley,  cld  Moon  soon  is  in  a prodigious  flurry;  he 
expected  to  have  been  peaceably  settled  down  in  Lisbon  for  the 
next  six  months,  and  he  has  received  orders  to  set  out  for  Beres- 
ford’s  headquarters  immediately;  and,  from  what  I hear,  they 
have  no  idlp  time. 

“Well,  Sparks,  how  goes  it,  man?  Better  fun  this  than  the 
cook’s  galley,  eh?” 

“Why,  do  you  know,  these  hurried  movements  put  me  out 
confoundedly.  I found  Lisbon  very  interesting,  the  little  I could 
see  of  it  last  night.” 

“ Ah,  my  dear  fellows,  think  of  the  lovely  Andalusian  lasses, 
with  their  brown,  transparent  skins  and  liquid  eyes.  Why, 
you’d  have  been  over  head  and  ears  in  love  in  twenty-four  hours 
more,  had  we  stayed.” 

“ Are  they  really  so  pretty?*’ 

“ Pretty f — downright  lovely,  man.  Why,  they  have  a way  of 
looking  at  you,  over  their  fans — just  one  glance,  short  and 
fleeting,  but  so  melting,  by  Jove.  Then  their  walk— if  it  be  not 
profane  to  call  that  springing  elastic  gesture  by  such  a name — 
why,  it’s  regular  witchcraft.  Sparks,  my  man,  I tremble  for 
you.  Do  you  know,  by  the  bye.  that  same  pace  of  theirs  is  a 
hard  thing  to  learn.  I never  d^ild  come  it;  and  yet,  somehow, 
I was  formerly  rather  a crack  fellow  at  a ballet.  Old  Alberto 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY, 


22T 


used  to  select  me  for  a pas  de  zephyr  among  a host;  but  there’s 
a kind  of  a hop,  and  a slide,  and  a spring,  in  fact  you  must  have 
been  wearing  petticoats  for  eighteen  years,  and  have  an  Anda- 
lusian instep,  and  an  india-rubber  sole  to  your  foot,  or  it’s  no 
use  trying  it.  How  I used  to  make  them  laugh  at  the  old  San 
Joseph  convent,  formerly,  by  my  efforts  in  the  cause.” 

Why,  how  did  it  ever  occur  to  you  to  practice  it?” 

“ Many  a man’s  legs  have  saved  his  head,  Charley;  and  I put 
it  to  mine  to  do  a similar  office  for  me.” 

“ True;  but  I never  heard  of  a man  that  performed  pas  seul 
before  the  enemy.” 

“Not  exactly;  but  still  you’re  not  very  wide  of  the  mark.  If 
you’ll  only  wait  till  we  reach  Pontalegue,  I’ll  tell  you  the  story; 
not  that  it  is  worth  the  delay,  but  talking  at  this  brisk  pace,  I 
don’t  admire.” 

“You’ll  leave  a detachment  here.  Captain  Power,”  said  an 
aid-de-camp,  riding  hastily  up,  “and  General  Cotton  requests 
you  will  send  a subaltern  and  two  sergeants  forward  toward 
Berar,  to  reconnoiter  the  pass.  Franchesca’s  cavalry  are  report- 
ed in  that  quarter;”  so  speaking  he  dashed  spurs  to  his  horse, 
and  was  out  of  sight  in  an  instant. 

Power  at  the  same  moment  wdieeled  to  the  rear,  from  which 
he  returned  in  an  instant,  accompanied  by  three  well-mounted 
light  dragoons.  “ Sparks,”  said  he,  “ now  for  an  occasion  of 
distinguishing  yourself.  You  heard  the  order,  lose  no  time, 
and  as  your  horse  is  an  able  one  and  fresh,  lose  not  a second, 
but  forward.” 

No  sooner  was  Sparks  dispatched  on  what  it  was  evident  he 
felt  to  be  anything  but  a pleasant  duty,  than  I turned  to  Power, 
and  said,  with  some  tinge  of  disappointment  in  the  tone:  “ Well, 
if  you  really  felt  there  was  anything  w^orth  doing  there — I flat- 
tered myself — that ” 

“ Speak  out,  man — that  I should  have  sent  you,  eh,  is  it  not 
so?” 

“Yes,  you’ve  hit  it.” 

“ Well,  Charley,  my  peace  is  easily  made  on  this  head — why  I 
selscted  Sparks — simply  to  spare  you  one  of  the  most  unpleas- 
ant duties  that  can  be  imposed  upon  a man;  a duty  which,  let 
him  discharge  to  the  uttermost,  will  never  be  acknowdedged, 
and  the  slightest  failure  in  which . will  be  remembered  for  many 
a day  against  him;  besides  the  pleasant  and  very  probable  pros- 
pect of  being  selected  as  a bull’s  eye  for  a French  rifle,  or  car- 
ried off  a prisoner — eh,  Charley — there’s  no  glory,  not  a ray  of  it. 
Come,  come,  old  fellow,  Fred  Power’s  not  the  man  to  keep  his 
friend  out  of  the  rielee  if  only  anything  can  be  made  by  being  in 
it.  Poor  Sparks,  I’d  swear,  is  as  little  satisfied  with  the  arrange- 
ment as  yourself,  if  one  knew  but  all.” 

“ I say,  Povv^er,”  said  a tall,  dashing-looking  man  of  about  flve- 
and-forty,  with  a Portuguese  order  on  his  breast,  “Isay,  Power, 
dine  with  us  at  the  halt.” 

“With  pleasure,  if  I may  bring  my  young  friend  here.’* 

“ Of  course,  pray  introduce  us.” 

“ Major  Hixley— Mr.  O’Malley—a  14th  man^ 


828 


CHARLES  aUALLET. 


‘‘  Delighted  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Mr.  O'Malley,  Knew 
a famous  fellow  in  Ireland  of  your  name,  a certain  Godfrey 
O’Malley,  member  for  some  county  or  other.” 

“My  uncle,”  said  I,  blushing  deeply,  with  a pleasurable  feel- 
ing, at  even  this  slight  praise  of  my  oldest  friend. 

“Your  uncle!  give  me  your  hand.  By  Jove,  his  nephew  has 
a right  to  good  treatment  at  my  hands;  be  saved  my  life  in  the 
year  ’98;  and  how  is  old  Godfrey?” 

“ Quite  well  when  I left  him  some  months  ago;  little  gout 
now  and  then.” 

“ To  be  sure  he  has — no  man  deserves  it  better;  but  it’s  a gen- 
tle man-like  gout,  that  merely  jogs  his  memory  in  the  morning  of 
the  good  wine  he  has  drunk  over  night;  by  the  bye,  what  be- 
came of  a friend  of  his,  a very  eccentric  fellow,  who  held  a com- 
mand in  the  Austrian  service  ?” 

“ Oh,  the  Considine— the  Count.” 

“The  same.” 

“As  eccentric  as  ever.  I left  him  on  a visit  with  my  uncle. 
And  Boyle,  did  you  know  Sir  Harry  Boyle  ?” 

“To  be  sure  I did.  Shall  I ever  forget  him  and  his  capital 
blunders,  that  kept  me  laughing  the  whole  time  I spent  in  Ire- 
land? I was  in  the  house  when  he  concluded  a panegyric  upon 
a friend,  by  calling  him  ‘ the  father  to  the  poor,  and  uncle  to 
Lord  Donoughmore.’” 

“ He  was  the  only  man  who  could  render  by  a bull  what  it  was 
impossible  to  convey  more  correctly,”  said  Power;  “you’ve 
heard  of  his  duel  with  Harry  Toler?” 

“ Never!  let’s  hear  it.” 

“ It  was  a bull  from  beginning  to  end.  Boyle  took  it  into  his 
head  that  Harry  was  a person  with  whom  he  had  a serious  row 
in  Cork.  Harry,  on  the  other  hand,  mistook  Boyle  for  old 
Caples,  whom  he  had  been  pursuing  with  horse- whipping  inten- 
tions for  some  months;  they  met  in  Kildare  street  Club,  and 
very  little  colloquy  satisfied  them  that  they  were  right  in  their 
conjectures;  each  party  being  so  eagerly  ready  to  meet  the  views 
of  the  other.  It  never  was  a difficult  matter  to  find  a friend  in 
Dublin;  and,  to  do  them  justice,  Irisli  seconds,  generally  speak- 
ing, are  perfectly  free  from  any  imputation  upon  the  score  of 
good  breeding.  No  men  have  less  impertinent  curiosity  as  to 
the  cause  of  the  quarrel;  wisely  supposing  that  the  principals 
know  their  own  affairs  best,  they  cautiously  abstain  from  indulg- 
ing in  any  prying  spirit,  but  proceed  to  discharge  their  functions 
as  best  they  may.  Accordingly,  Sir  Harry  and  Dick  were  set,  as 
the  phrase  is,  at  twelve  paces;  and,  to  use  Boyle’s  own  words, 
for  I have  heard  him  relate  the  story; 

“ ‘ We  blazed  away,  sir,  for  three  rounds.  I put  two  in  his 
hat,  and  one  in  his  neckcloth;  his  shots  went  all  through  the 
skirt  of  my  coat.’ 

“‘We’li  spend  the  day  here,’ says  Considine,  ‘at  this  rate; 
couldn’t  you  put  them  closer  ?’ 

“ ‘ And  give  us  a little  more  time  in  the  world,’  says  1. 

“ ‘ Exactly,’  said  Dick. 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


229 


‘Well,  they  moved  us  forward  two  paces,  and  set  to  loading 
the  pistols  again.’ 

“ ‘By  this  time  we  were  so  near  that  we  had  full  opportunity 
to  scan  each  other’s  faces;  well,  sir,  I stared  at  him,  and  lie  at 
me.’ 

“ ‘ What,’  said  1. 

“ ‘ Eh!’  said  he. 

“ ‘ How’s  this?’  said  L 

“ ‘ You're  not  Billy  Caples,’  said  he. 

“ ‘ Not  a bit,’  said  I;  ‘ nor  I don’t  think  you’re  Archy  Devine;’ 
and  faith,  sir,  so  it  appeared;  we  were  fighting  away  all  the 
morning  for  nothing — for  somehow  it  turned  out  it  was  neither 
of  us,’^ 

What  amused  me  most  in  this  anecdote  was  the  hearing  it  at 
such  a time  and  place;  that  poor  Sir  Harry’s  eccentricities  should 
turn  up  for  discussion  on  a march  in  Portugal,  was  singular 
enough;  but,  after  all  life  is  full  of  such  incongruous  accidents. 
I remember  once  supping  with  King  Calzoo  on  the  Blue  Mount- 
ains in  Jamaica.  By  way  of  entertaining  his  guests,  some 
English  officers,  he  ordered  one  of  his  suite  to  sing.  We  were  of 
course  pleased  at  the  opportunity  of  hearing  an  Indian  war- 
chant  with  a skull  and  thigh-bone  accompaniment;  but  what 
was  our  astonishment  to  hear  the  Indian,  a ferocious-looking 
dog,  with  an  awful  scalp-lock,  and  two  streaks  of  red  paint 
across  his  chest— clear  his  voice  well  for  a few  seconds,  and  then 
begin,  without  discomposing  a muscle  of  his  gravity,  “The 
Laird  of  Cockpen.”  I need  not  say  that  the  “ Great  Raccoon” 
was  a Dumfries  man,  who  had  quitted  Scotland  forty  years  be- 
fore, and,  with  characteristic  prosperity,  had  attained  his  present 
rank  in  a foreign  service. 

“ Halt,  halt!”  cried  a deep-toned,  manly  voice  in  the  leading 
column,  and  the  word  was  repeated  from  mouth  to  mouth  to  the 
rear. 

We  dismounted,  and  picketing  our  horses  beneath  the  broad- 
leaved foliage  of  the  cork  trees — stretched  out  at  full  length 
upon  the  grass,  while  our  mess  men  prepared  the  dinner.  Our 
party  at  first  consisted  of  Hixley,  Power,  the  adjutant,  and  my- 
self; but  our  number  was  soon  increased  by  three  officers  of  the 
6th  Foot,  about  to  join  their  regiment. 

“Barring  the  ladies,  Heaven  bless  them,”  said  Power,  “ there 
are  no  such  picnics  as  campaigning  presents;  the  charms  of 
scenery  are  greatly  enhanced  by  their  coming  unexpectedly  on 
you.  Your  chance  good  fortune  in  the  prog  has  an  interest  that 
no  ham  and  cold  chicken  affair,  prepared  by  your  servants  be- 
forehand, and  got  ready  with  a degree  of  fuss  and  worry,  that 
converts  the  whole  party  into  an  assembly  of  cooks,  can  ever  af- 
ford; and,  lastly,  the  excitement  that  this  same  life  of  ours  is 
never  without — gives  a zest^ ” 

“There  you’ve  hit  it, ” cried  Hixley;  “it’s  that  same  feeling 
of  uncertainty  that  those  who  meet  now  may  never  do  so  again, 
full  as  it  is  of  sorrowful  reflection,  that  still  teaches  us,  as  we 
become  inured  to  war,  to  economize  our  pleasures  and  be  happy 


230  CHARLES  SMALLEY. 

when  we  may.  Your  health,  O’Malley,  and  your  uncle  Godfrey’s, 
too.” 

“A  little  more  of  the  pastry.” 

“ What  a capital  Guinea  fowl  this  is!” 

“ That’s  some  of  old  Monsoon’s  old  particular  port.” 

“ Pass  it  round  here — really,  this  is  pleasant.” 

“My  blessing  on  the  man  who  left  that  vista  yonder;  see 
what  a glorious  valley  stretches  out  there,  undulating  in  its  rich- 
ness; and  look  at  those  dark  trees,  where  just  one  streak  of  soft 
sunlight  is  kissing  their  tops,  giving  them  one  chaste  good- 
night  ” 

“Well  done,  Power.” 

“ Confound  you,  you  have  pulled  me  short,  and  I was  about 
becoming  downright  pastoral — apropos  of  kissing — I understand 
Sir  Arthur  won’t  allow  the  convents  to  be  occupied  by  troops.” 

“ And  apropos  of  convents,”  said  I,  “let’s  hear  your  story — 
you  promised  it  a while  ago.” 

“ My  dear  Charley,  it’s  far  too  early  in  the  evening  for  a story. 

I should  rather  indulge  my  poetic  fancies  here,  under  the  shade 
of  melancholy  boughs — and,  besides,  Pm  not  half  screwed  up 
yet.” 

“Come,  Adjutant,  let’s  have  a song.” 

“ I’ll  sing  you  a Portuguese  serenade  when  the  next  bottle  comes 
in.  What  capital  port!  have  you  much  of  it?” 

“ Only  three  dozen.  We  got  it  late  last  night;  forged  an  order 
from  the  commanding  officer  and  sent  it  to  old  Monsoon — ‘ for 
hospital  use.’  He  gave  it  with  a tear  in  his  eye;  saying,  as  the 
sergeant  marched  away:  ‘ Only  think  of  such  wine  for  fellows . 
that  may  be  in  the  next  world  before  morning!  It’s  a downright 
sin.’  ” 

“ I say,  Power,  there’s  something  going  on  in  there.” 

At  this  instant  the  trumpet  sounded  “ boot  and  saddle;”  and, 
like  one  man,  the  whole  mass  rose  up;  when  the  scene,  late  so 
tranquil,  became  one  of  excited  bustle  and  confusion.  An  aid- 
de-camp  galloped  past  tow^ard  the  river,  followed  by  two  orderly 
sergeants,  and  the  next  moment  Sparks  galloped  up;  his  whole 
equipment  giving  evidence  of  a hurried  ride,  while  his  cheek 
was  deadly  pale  and  haggard. 

Power  presented  to  him  a goblet  of  sherry,  which,  having 
emptied  at  a draught,  he  drew  a long  breath,  and  said; 

“ They  are  coming — coining  in  force.” 

“ Who  are  coming ?”  said  Power;  “take  time,  man,  and  col- 
lect yourself.” 

“The  French!  I saw  them  a great  deal  closer  than  I liked; 
they  wounded  one  of  the  orderlies,  and  took  the  other  prisoner.” 

“Forward!”  cried  a hoarse  voice  in  the  front;  “march — trot.” 

And  before  we  could  obtain  any  furthpr  information  from 
Sparks,  whose  faculties  seemed  to  have  received  a terrific  shock, 
we  were  once  more  in  the  saddle,  and  moving  at  a brisk  pace 
onward. 

Sparks  had  barely  time  to  tell  us  that  a large  body  of  French 
cavalry  occupied  the  pass  of  Berar,  when  he  was  sent  for  by 
General  Cotton  to  finish  his  report. 


CHARLES  aMALLEYo 


281 


How  frightened  the  fellow  is,”  said  Hixley. 

“I  don’t  think  the  worse  of  poor  Sparks  for  that,”  said  Power; 
^‘he  saw  those  fellows  for  the  first  time,  and  no  bird’s-eye  view 
of  them  either.” 

Then  we  are  in  for  a skirmish,  at  least,”  said  I. 

“ It  would  appear  not  from  that,”  said  Hixley,  pointing  to  the 
head  of  the  column,  which,  leaving  the  high  road  upon  the  left, 
entered  the  forest  by  a deep  cleft,  that  opened  upon  a valley 
traversed  by  a broad  river. 

^‘That  looks  very  like  taking  up  a position,  though,”  said 
Power. 

Look,  look!  down  yonder,”  cried  Hixley,  pointing  to  a dip 
in  the  plain  beside  the  river;  “ is  not  a cavalry  picket  there  ?” 

“ Right,  by  Jove!  I say,  Fitzroy,”  said  Power  to  an  aid-de- 
camp  as  he  passed,  ‘‘  what’s  going  on?” 

“ Soult  has  carried  Oporto,”  cried  he;  ‘‘  and  Franchesca’s  cav- 
alry have  escaped.” 

And  who  are  these  fellows  in  the  valley?” 

Our  own  people  coming  up.” 

In  less  than  half  an  hour’s  brisk  trotting  we  reached  the 
stream,  the  banks  of  which  were  occupied  by  two  cavalry  regi- 
ments, advancing  to  the  main  army;  and  what  was  my  delight 
to  find  that  one  of  them  was  our  own  corps,  the  14th  Light  Dra- 
goons. 

“ Hurra!”  cried  Power,  waving  his  cap  as  he  came  up.  How 
are  you,  Sedge  wick  ? Baker,  my  hearty,  how  goes  it?  How  is 
Hampton,  and  the  Colonel  ?” 

In  an  instant  we  were  surrounded  by  our  brother  officers, 
who  all  shook  me  cordially  by  the  hand,  and  welcomed  me  to 
the  regiment  with  most  gratifying  warmth. 

“ One  of  us,”  said  Power,  with  a knowing  look,  as  he  intro- 
duced me;  and  the  freemasonry  of  these  few  words  secured  me 
a hearty  greeting. 

“ Halt,  halt!  dismount!”  sounded  again  from  front  to  rear, 
and  in  a few  minutes  we  were  once  more  stretched  upon  the 
grass,  beneath  the  deep  and  mellow  moonlight;  while  the  bright 
stream  ran  placidly  beside  us,  reflecting,  on  its  calm  surface,  the 
varied  groups,  as  they  lounged  or  sat  around  the  blazing  fires  of 
the  bivouac. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE  BIVOUAC. 

When  I contrasted  the  gay  and  lively  tone  of  the  conversa- 
tion which  ran  on  around  bur  bivouac  fire,  with  the  dry  monot- 
ony and  prosaic  tediousness  of  my  first  military  dinner  at  Cork, 
I felt  how  much  the  spirit  and  adventure  of  a soldier’s  life  can 
impart  of  chivalrous  enthusiasm  to  even  the  dullest  and  less 
susceptible.  I saw  even  many  who,  under  common  circum- 
stances, would  have  possessed  no  interest,  nor  excited  any 
curiosity,  but  now  connected  as  they  were  with  the  great  events 
occurring  round  them,  absolutely  became  heroes.  And  it  was 
with  a strange,  wild  throbbing  of  excitement  I listened  to  the 


m 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


details  of  movements  and  marches,  whose  objects  I knew  not, 
but  in  which  the  magical  words,  Corunna,  Vimeria,  were  mixed 
up,  and  gave  to  the  circumstances  an  interest  of  the  highest 
character;  how  proud,  too,  I felt  to  be  the  companion  in  arms 
of  such  fellows;  here  they  sat,  the  tried  and  proved  soldiers  of  a 
hundred  fights,  treating  me  as  their  brother  and  their  equal. 
Who  need  wonder  if  I felt  a sense  of  excited  pleasure;  had  I 
needed  such  a stimulant,  that  night  beneath  the  cork  trees  had 
been  enough  to  arouse  a passion  for  the  army  in  my  heart,  and 
an  irrepressible  determination  to  seek  for  a soldier’s  glory. 

“ Fourteenth!’'  called  out  a voice  from  the  wood  behind,  and 
in  a moment  after  the  aid-de-camp  appeared  with  a mounted 
orderly. 

“ Colonel  Merivale,”  said  he,  touching  his  cap  to  the  stalwart 
eoldier-like  figure  before  him. 

The  Colonel  bowed. 

“ Sir  Stapleton  Cotton  desires  me  to  request  that  at  an  early 
hour  to-morrow  you  will  occupy  the  pass,  and  cover  the  march 
of  the  troops.  It  is  his  wish  that  all  the  reinforcements  should 
arrive  at  Oporto  by  noon.  I need  scarcely  add  that  we  expect 
to  be  engaged  with  the  enemy.” 

These  few  words  were  spoken  hurriedly,  and  again  saluting 
our  party,  he  turned  his  horse’s  head  and  continued  his  way  to- 
ward the  rear. 

“ There’s  news  for  you,  Charley,”  said  Power,  slapping  me  on 
the  shoulder.  “ Lucy  Dashwood,  or  Westminster  Abbey!” 

“ The  regiment  never  was  in  finer  condition,  that’s  certain,” 
said  the  Colonel,  “ and  most  eager  for  a brush  with  the  enemy.” 

“How  your  old  friend  the  Count  would  have  liked  this 
work,”  said  Hixley;  “ gallant  fellow  he  was.” 

“Come,”  cried  Power,  “here’s  a fresh  bowl  coming.  Let’s 
drink  the  ladies,  wherever  they  be;  we  most  of  us  have  some 
soft  spot  on  that  score.” 

“Yes,”  said  the  Adjutant,  singing: 

“Here’s  to  the  maiden  of  blushing  fifteen, 

Here’s  to  the  damsel  that’s  merry, 

Here’s  to  the  flaunting,  extravagant  quean.” 

**  And,’'  sang  Power,  interrupting,  “ and — 

“ Here’s  to  the  ‘ Widow  of  Derry.’  ” 

“ Come,  come,  Fred,  no  more  quizzing  on  that  score.  It’s  the 
only  thing  ever  gave  me  a distaste  to  the  service,  is  the  souvenir 
of  that  adventure.  When  I reflect  what  I might  have  been,  and 
think  what  I am — when  I contrast  a Brussels  carpet  with  wet 
grass — silk  hangings  with  a canvas  tent— Sneyd  claret  with 
ration  brandy — and  Sir  Arthur  for  Commander-in-chief  vice 
Boggs ” 

“Stop  there,”  cried  Hixley,  “without  disparaging  the  fair 
widow,  there’s  nothing  beats  campaigning  after  all;  eh,  Fred?” 

“And  to  prove  it,”  said  the  Colonel,  “Power  wdll  sing  us  a 
Bong.” 

Power  took  his  pencil  from  his  pocket,  and  placing  the  back 


CHARLES  aMALLEY.  233 

of  a letter  across  his  shako,  commenced  inditing  his  lyric;  saying 
as  he  did  so: 

‘‘  I’m  your  man  in  five  minutes;  just  fill  my  glass  in  the  mean- 
time.” 

That  fellow  beats  Dibdin  hollow,”  whispered  the  Adjutant. 
‘‘  I’ll  be  hanged  if  he’ll  not  knock  you  off  a song  like  lightning.*’ 

‘‘I  understand,”  said  Hixley,  “they  have  some  intention  at 
the  Horse  Guards  of  having  all  the  general  orders  set  to  popular 
tunes,  and  sung  at  every  mess  in  the  service.  You’ve  heard  that, 
I suppose,  Sparks  ?” 

“ I confess  I had  not  before.” 

“ It  will  certainly  come  very  hard  on  the  subalterns,”  contin- 
ued Hixley,  with  much  gravity;  “ they’ll  have  to  brush  up  their 
so  mi  fas;  all  the  solos  are  to  be  their  part.” 

“ What  rhymes  with  slaughter?”  said  Power. 

“ Brandy  and  water,”  said  the  Adjutant. 

“ Now  then,”  said  Power,  “ are  you  all  ready?” 

“Ready.” 

“ You  must  chorus,  mind;  and  mark  me,  take  care  you  give 
the  hip,  hip,  hurra,  well,  as  that’s  the  whole  force  of  the  chant. 
Take  the  time  from  me.  Now  for  it.  Air  ‘ Garryowen,’  with 
spirit,  but  not  too  quick: 

“ ‘ Now  that  we’ve  pledged  each  eye  of  blue, 

And  every  maiden  fair  and  true, 

And  our  green  island  home — to  you, 

The  ocean’s  wave  adorning; 

Let’s  give  one  hip,  hip,  hurra, 

And  drink  e’en  to  the  coming  day. 

When,  squadron  square, 

We’ll  all  be  there. 

To  meet  the  French  in  the  morning. 

“ ‘ May  his  bright  laurels  never  fade, 

Who  leads  our  fighting  fifth  brigade, 

Those  lads  so  true  in  h^eart  and  blade. 

And  famed  for  danger  scorning; 

So  join  me  in  one  hip,  hurra. 

And  drink  e’en  to  the  coming  day. 

When,  squadron  square, 

We’ll  all  be  there. 

To  meet  the  French  in  the  morning. 

‘ And  when  with  years  and  honors  crowned, 

You  sit  some  homeward  hearth  around, 

And  hear  no  more  the  stirring  sound 
That  spoke  the  trumpet’s  warning; 

You’ll  fill  and  drink  one  hip,  hurra, 

And  pledge  the  memory  of  the  day, 

When,  squadron  square. 

They  all  were  there. 

To  meet  the  French  in  the  morning.’  ” 

“Gloriously  done,  Fred!”  cried  Hixley.  “If  lever  get  my 
deserts  in  this  world.  I’ll  make  you  Laureate  to  the  Forces, 
with  a hogshead  of  your  own  native  whisky  for  every  victory 
of  the  army,” 


234 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


‘‘A  very  good  chant,’-  said  Merivale;  “but  the  air  surpasses 
anything  I ever  heard;  thoroughly  Irish,  I take  it.” 

“ Irish!  upon  my  conscience,  I believe  you,”  shouted  O’Shaugh- 
nessy,  with  an  energy  of  voice  and  manner  that  created  a laugh 
on  all  sides.  “ It’s  few  people  ever  mistook  it  for  a Venetian 
melody.  Hand  over  the  punch — the  sherry,  I mean.  When  I 
was  in  the  Clare  militia,  we  always  went  in  to  dinner  to  ‘ Tatter 
Jack  Walsh,’  a sweet  air,  and  had  ‘ Garryowen’  for  a quick-step. 
Quid  MacManus,  when  he  got  the  regiment,  wanted  to  change; 
he  said  that  they  were  infernal  vulgar  tunes,  and  wanted  to  have 
‘Kule  Britannia,’  or  the  ‘ Hundreth  Psalm;’  but  we  would  not 
stand  it;  there  would  have  bi^en  a mutiny  in  the  corps.” 

“The  same  fellow,  wasn’t  he,  that  you  told  the  story  of  the 
other  evening  in  Lisbon?”  said  I. 

“ The  same.  Well,  \^hat  a character  he  was!  As  pompous 
and  conceited  a little  fellow  as  ever  you  met  with;  and  then  he 
was  so  bullied  by  his  wife;  he  always  came  down  to  revenge  it 
on  the  regiment.  She  was  a fine,  showy,  vulgar  woman,  with  a 
most  cherishing  affection  for  all  the  good  things  in  this  life,  ex- 
cept her  husband,  whom  she  certainly  held  in  due  contempt. 

‘ Ye  little  crayture,’  she’d  say  to  him  with  a sneer,  ‘ it  ill  be- 
comes you  to  drink  and  sing,  and  be  making  a man  of  yourself. 
If  you  were  like  O'Shaughnessy  there,  six  foot  three  in  his  stock- 
ings.’ Well,  well;  it  looks  like  boasting;  but  no  matter;  here’s 
her  health,  any  way.” 

“ I knew  you  were  tender  in  that  quarter,”  said  Power.  “ I 
heard  it  when  quartered  in  Limerick.” 

“ Maybe  you  heard,  too,  how  I paid  off  Mac.,  when  he  came 
down  on  a visit  in  that  county 

“Never;  let’s  hear  it  now.” 

“ Ah,  O’Shaughnessy,  now’s  your  time;  the  fire's  a good  one, 
the  night  fine,  and  liquor  plenty.” 

“ I’m  convanient,”  said  O’Shaughnessy,  as,  depositing  his  enor- 
mous legs  at  each  side  of  the  burning  faggots,  and  placing  a bot- 
tle between  his  knees,  he  began  his  story: 

It  was  a cold,  rainy  night  in  January,  in  the  year ’98,  I took 
my  place  in  the  Limerick  mail,  to  go  down  for  a few  days  in  the 
west  country.  As  the  waiter  of  the  Hibernian  came  to  the 
door  with  a lantern,  I just  caught  a glimpse  of  the  others  in- 
side; none  of  whom  were  known  to  me,  except  Colonel  MacManus, 
that  I met  once  in  a boarding-house  in  Moles  worth  street.  I did 
not,  at  the  time,  think  him  a very  agreeable  companion ; but 
when  morning  broke,  and  we  began  to  pay  our  respects  to  each 
other  in  the  coach,  I leaned  over  and  said,  ‘ I hope  you’re  well, 
Colonel  MacManus,’  just  by  way  of  civility  like.  He  didn’t  hear 
me  at  first;  so  that  I said  it  again,  a little  louder. 

“ I wish  you  saw  the  look  he  gave  me,  he  drew  himself  up  to 
the  height  of  his  cotton  umbrella,  put  his  chin  inside  his  cravat, 
pursed  up  his  dry  shriveled  lips,  and  with  a voice  he  meant  to 
be  awful,  replied: 

“ ‘ You  appear  to  have  the  advantage  of  me.’ 

‘Upon my  conscienc(i,  you’re  right,’  said  I,  looking  down  at 
myself,  and  then  over  at  him,  at  which  the  other  travelers  burst 


CHARLES  HM ALLEY. 


235 


out  a laughing;  * I think  there’s  few  will  dispute  that  point.’ 
When  the  laugh  was  over,  I resumed,  for  I was  determined  not 
to  let  him  off  so  easily.  ‘ Sure  I met  you  at  Mrs.  Gayle’s,’  said  I; 
‘ and  by  tlie  same  token — it  was  a Friday,  I remember  it  well — 
maybe  you  didn’t  pitch  into  the  salt  cod!  I hope  it  didn’t  disa- 
gree with  you  ? 

‘‘  ‘ I beg  to  repeat,  sir,  that  you  are  under  a mistake,’  said  he* 
‘ Maybe  so,  indeed,’  said  I.  ‘ Maybe  you’re  not  Colonel  Mac- 
Manus,  at  all;  maybe  you  wasn’t  in  a passion  for  losing  seven 
and  sixpence  at  loo,  with  Mrs.  Moriarty;  maybe  you  didn^t 
break  the  lamp  in  the  hall  with  your  umbrella;  pretending  you 
touched  it  with  your  head,  and  wasn’t  within  three  foot  of  it; 
maybe  Counselor  Brady  wasn’t  going  to  put  you  in  the  box  of  the 
Foundling  Hospital,  if  you  wouldn’t  behave  quietly  in  the 
streets ’ 

Well,  with  this  the  others  laughed  so  heartily,  that  I could 
not  go  o]i;  and  the  next  stage  the  bold  Colonel  got  outside  with 
the  guard,  and  never  came  in  till  we  reached  Limerick.  I’ll 
never  forget  his  face,  as  he  got  down  at  Swineburne’s  Hotel. 

‘ Good-bye,  Colonel,’  said  I;  but  he  wouldn't  take  the  least  no- 
tice of  my  politeness;  but  with  a frown  of  utter  defiance,  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away. 

'“I  haven’t  done  with  you  yet,’  says  I;  and,  faith,  I kept  my 
word. 

‘‘I  hadn’t  gone  ten  yards  down  the  street,  when  I met  my  old 
friend,  Darby  O’Grady. 

“ ‘ Shaugh,  my  boy,’  says  he — he  called  me  that  way  for  short- 
ness— ‘ dine  with  me  to-day,  at  Mosey ’s  ? a green  goose  and 
gooseberries;  six  to  a minute.’ 

‘‘  Who  have  you?”  sa5^s  I. 

“ ‘Tom  Keane  and  the  Wallers,  a counselor  or  two,  and  one 
MacIManus  from  Dublin.’ 

“ ‘ The  Colonel  ?’ 

“ ‘ The  same,’  said  he. 

“ ‘I’m  there,  Darby!’  said  I;  ‘but  mind,  you  never  saw  me 
before.’ 

“ ‘ What!’  said  he. 

“ ‘ You  never  set  eyes  on  me  before;  mind  that.’ 

“ ‘I  understand,’  said  Darby,  witli  a wink,  and  we  parted. 

I certainly  was  never  very  particular  about  dressing  for  dinner, 
but  on  this  day  I spent  a considerable  time  at  my  toilet;  and, 
when  I looked  in  my  glass  at  its  completion,  was  well  satisfied 
that  I had  done  myself  justice.  A waistcoat  of  brown  rabbit- 
skin  with  flaps,  a red  worsted  comforter  round  my  neck,  an  old 
gray  shooting  jacket,  with  a brown  patch  on  the  arm,  corduroys 
and  leather  gaiters,  with  a tremendous  oak  cudgel  in  my  hand, 
made  a most  presentable  figure  for  a dinner  party. 

“ ‘ Shall  I do,  Darby  ?’  says  I,  as  he  came  into  my  room  before 
dinner. 

“ ‘If  it’s  for  robbing  the  mail  you  are,’  says  he,  ‘nothing 
could  be  better.  Your  father  wouldn’t  know  you.’ 

“ ‘Would  I be  the  better  of  a wig ?’ 


236 


CHARLES  am  ALLEY. 


‘Leave  your  hair  alone,’  said  he.  ‘It’s  painting  the  lily  to 
alter  it.’ 

“ Well,  just  as  the  clock  struck  six,  I saw  the  Colonel  come  out 
of  his  room,  in  a suit  of  most  accurate  sable,  stockings  and 
pumps.  Down-stairs  he  went,  and  I heard  the  waiter  announce 
him. 

“ ‘ Now’s  my  time,’  thought  I,  as  I followed  slowly  after. 

“When  I reached  the  door  I heard  several  voices  within, 
among  which  I recognized  some  ladies.  Darby  had  not  told  me 
about  them;  ‘ but  no  matter,’  said  I;  ‘ it’s  all  as  well.’  So  I gave 
a gentle  tap  at  the  door  with  my  knuckles. 

“ ‘ Come  in,’  said  Darby. 

“ I opened  the  door  slowly,  and,  putting  in  only  my  head  and 
shoulders,  took  a cautious  look  round  the  room. 

“ ‘ I beg  pardon,  gentlemen,’  said  I,  ‘ but  I was  only  looking 
for  one  Colonel  MacManus,  and,  as  he  is  not  here ’ 

“ ‘ Pray,  walk  in,  sir,’  said  O’Grady,  with  a polite  bow. 
‘ Colonel  MacManus  is  here.  There’s  no  intrusion  whatever.  I 
say.  Colonel,’  said  he,  turning  round,  ‘ a gentleman  here  desires 
to ’ 

“ ‘ Never  mind  it  now,’  said  I,  as  I stepped  cautiously  into  the 
room;  ‘ he’s  going  to  dinner,  another  time  will  do  just  as  well.’ 

“ ‘ Pray,  come  in.’ 

“ ‘I  could  not  think  of  intruding ’ 

“ ‘ I must  protest,’  said  MacManus,  coloring  up,  ‘ that  I cannot 
understand  this  gentleman’s  visit.’ 

“ ‘It’s  a little  affair  I have  to  settle  with  him,’  said  I,  with  a 
fierce  look,  that  I saw  produced  its  effect. 

“‘Then  perhaps  you  would  do  me  the  very  great  favor 
to  join  him  at  dinner,’  said  O’Grady.  ‘Any  friend  of  Colonel 
MacManus ’ 

“‘You  are  really  too  good,’  said  I;  ‘but,  as  an  utter  stran- 
ger  ’ 

“ ‘ Never  think  of  that  for  a moment.  My  friend’s  friend,  as 
the  adage  says.’ 

“ ‘Upon  my  conscience,  a good  saying,’  said  I,  ‘but  you  see 
there’s  another  difficult v.  I’ve  ordered  a chop  and  potatoes  up 
in  No.  5.’ 

“‘Let  that  be  no  obstacle,’ said  O’Grady.  ‘ The  waiter  shall 
put  it  in  my  bill;  if  you  will  only  do  me  the  pleasure.’ 

“ ‘ You’re  a trump,’  said  I.  ‘ What’s  your  name  ?’ 

“ ‘ O’Grady,  at  your  service.’ 

“ Any  relation  of  the  counselor?’  said  I.  ‘They’re  all  one 
family,  the  O’Gradys.  I’m  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  from  Ennis; 
won't  you  introduce  me  to  the  ladies?’ 

“ While  the  ceremony  of  presentation  was  going  on,  I caught 
one  glance  at  MacManus,  and  had  hard  work  not  to  roar  out 
laughing.  Such  an  expression  of  surprise,  amazement,  indig- 
nation, rage,  and  misery,  never  was  mixed  up  in  one  face  be- 
fore. Speak  he  could  not;  and  I saw  that,  except  for  myself,  he 
had  neither  eyes,  ears,  nor  senses  for  anything  around  him. 
Just  at  this  mopient  dinner  was  announced,  and  in  we  went.  I 
never  was  in  such  spirits  in  my  life;  the  trick  upon  MacManug 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


m 

had  succeeded  perfectly,  he  believed  in  his  heart  that  I had  never 
met  O'Grady  in  my  life  before,  and  that  upon  the  faith  of  our 
friendship  I had  received  my  invitation.  As  for  me,  I spared 
him  but  little.  I kept  up  a running  fire  of  droll  stories;  had  the 
ladies  in  fits  of  laughing;  made  everlasting  allusions  to  the 
Colonel;  and  in  a word,  ere  the  soup  had  disappeared,  except 
himself,  the  company  were  entirely  with  me. 

“ * O'Grady,’ said  I,  ‘ forgive  the  freedom,  but  I feel  as  if  wo 
were  old  acquaintances.’ 

“ ‘ As  Colonel  MacManus’s  friend,’  said  he,  ‘ you  can  take  no 
liberty  here  to  which  you  are  not  perfectly  welcome.’ 

“ ‘ Just  what  I expected,’  said  I.  ‘Mac  and  I’— I wish  you 
saw  his  face  when  I called  him  Mac — ‘ Mac  and  I were  school* 
fellows  five-and-thirty  years  ago;  though  he  forgets  me,  I don't 
forget  him — to  be  sure  it  would  be  hard  for  me.  I’m  just  think- 
ing of  the  day  Bishop  Oulahan  came  over  to  visit  the  college. 
Mac  was  coming  in  at  the  door  of  the  refectory  as  the  bishop 
was  going  out.  ‘ Take  off  your  caubeen,  you  young  scoundrel, 
and  kneel  down  for  liis  reverence  to  bless  you,’  said  one  of  the 
masters,  giving  his  hat  a blow  at  the  same  moment  that  sent  it 
flying  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and,  with  it,  about  twenty 
ripe  pears  that  Mac  had  just  stolen  in  the  orchard,  and  had 
in  his  hat.  I wish  you  only  saw  the  bishop;  and  Mac  himself, 
he  was  a picture!  Well,  well,  you  forget  it  all  now,  but  I re- 
member it  as  if  it  was  only  yesterday.  Any  champagne,  Mr, 
O Grady?  Tm  mighty  dry.’ 

“ ‘ Of  course,’  said  Darby.  ‘ Waiter,  some  champagne  here.’ 

“ ‘Ah,  it  is  himself  was  the  boy  for  every  kind  of  fun  and 
scrapes,  quiet  and  demure  as  he  looks  over  there,  Mac,  your 
health.  It  is  not  every  day  of  the  week  we  get  champagne.’ 

“ He  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  as  I said  this;  his  face  and 
temples  grew  deep  purple,  his  eyes  started  as  if  they  would 
spring  from  his  head,  and  he  put  both  his  hands  to  his  forehead, 
as  if  trying  to  assure  himself  that  it  was  not  some  horrid  dream. 

“ ‘ A little  slice  more  of  the  turkey,’  said  I,  ‘ and  then,  O’Grady, 
ITl  try  your  hock.  It’s  a wine  I’m  mighty  fond  of,  and  so  is 
Mac  there.  Oh,  it’s  seldom,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  it  troubles  us. 
There,  fill  up  the  glass;  that’s  it.  Here  now.  Darby — that’s  your 
name,  I think — you’ll  not  think  I’m  taking  a liberty  in  giving  a 
toast;  here,  then.  I’ll  give  MacManus’s  health,  with  all  the 
honors;  though  early  yet,  to  be  sure,  but  we’ll  do  it  again,  by 
and  bye,  when  the  whisky  comes.  Plere’s  MacManus’s  good 
health;  and,  though  his  wife,  they  say,  does  not  treat  him  well, 
and  keeps  him  down ’ 

“The  roar  of  laughter  that  interrupted  me  here  was  produced 
by  the  expression  of  poor  Mac’s  face.  He  had  started  up  from 
the  table,  and,  leaning  with  both  his  hands  upon  it,  stared  round 
upon  the  company  like  a maniac— his  mouth  and  eyes  wide  open, 
and  his  hair  actually  bristling  with  amazement.  Thus  he  re- 
mained for  a full  minute,  gasping  like  a fish  in  a landing  net. 
It  seemed  a hard  struggle  for  him  to  believe  he  was  not  de- 
ranged. At  last  his  eyes  fell  upon  me;  he  uttered  a deep 
groan,  and,  with  a voice  tremulous  with  rage,  thundered  out; 


sas 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


‘‘  ^ The  scoundrel!  T never  saw  him  before/ 

“ He  rushed  from  the  room,  and  gained  the  street.  Before  our 
roar  of  laughter  was  over  he  had  secured  post  horses,  and  was 
galloping  toward  Ennis  at  the  top  speed  of  his  cattle. 

“ He  exchanged  once  into  the  line;  but 'they  say  that  he  caught 
a glimpse  of  my  name  in  the  army  list,  and  sold  out  the  next 
morning;  be  that  as  it  may,  we  never  met  since.” 

I have  related  O’Shaughnessy’s  story  here,  rather  from  the 
memory  I have  of  how  we  all  laughed  at  it  at  the  time  than  from 
any  feeling  as  to  its  real  desert;  but,  when  I think  of  the  voice, 
look,  accent,  and  gesture  of  the  narrator,  I can  scarcely  keep 
myself  from  again  giving  way  to  laughter. 


CHAPTEE  XLV. 

THE  DOURO. 

Never  did  the  morning  break  more  beautifully  than  on  the 
12th  of  May,  1809.  Huge  masses  of  fog-like  vapor  had  succeeded 
to  the  starry  cloudless  night,  but  one  by  one  they  moved  onward 
coward  the  sea,  disclosing,  as  they  passed,  long  tracts  of  love- 
ly country,  bathed  in  a rich  golden  glow.  The  broad  Douro, 
with  its  transparent  current,  shone  out  like  a bright  colored  rib- 
bon meandering  through  the  deep  garment  of  fairest  green;  the 
darkly  shadowed  mountains,  which  close  the  background, 
loomed  even  larger  than  they  were;  while  their  summits  were 
tipped  with  the  yellow  glory  of  the  morning.  The  air  was  calm 
and  still,  and  the  very  smoke  that  arose  from  the  peasant’s  cot 
labored  as  it  ascended  through  the  perfumed  air,  and,  save  the 
ripple  of  the  stream,  all  was  silent  as  the  grave. 

The  squadrons  of  the  14th,  with  which  I was,  had  diverged 
from  the  road  beside  the  river,  and,  to  obtain  a shorter  path, 
had  entered  the  skirts  of  a dark  pine  wood;  our  pace  was  a 
sharp  one;  an  orderly  had  been  already  dispatched  to  hasten  our 
arrival,  and  we  passed  on  at  a brisk  trot.  In  less  than  an  hour 
we  reached  the  verge  of  the  wood,  and,  as  we  rode  out  upon  the 
plain,  what  a spectacle  met  our  eyes!  Before  us,  in  anarow  val- 
ley, separated  from  the  river  by  a narrow  ridge,  were  picketed 
three  cavalry  regiments;  their  noiseless  gestures  and  perfect 
stillness  bespeaking  at  once  that  they  were  intended  for  a sur- 
prise party.  Further  down  the  stream,  and  upon  the  opposite 
side,  rose  the  massive  towers  and  tall  spires  of  Oporto,  displaying 
from  their  summits  the  broad  ensign  of  France;  while,  far  as 
the  eye  oould  reach,  the  broad,  dark  masses  of  troops  might  be 
seen;  the  intervals  between  their  columns  glittering  with  the 
bright  equipments  of  their  cavalry,  whose  steel  caps  and  lances 
were  sparkling  in  the  sunbeams.  The  bivouac  fires  were  still 
smoldering,  and  marking  where  some  part  of  the  army  had 
passed  the  night;  for,  early  as  it  was,  it  was  evident  that  their 
position  had  been  changed;  and,  even  now,  the  heavy  masses  of 
dark  infantry  might  be  seen  moving  from  place  to  place,  'while 
the  long  line  of  the  road  to  Valonga  was  marked  with  a vast 
cloud  of  dust.  The  French  drum  and  the  light  infantry  bugle 
told,  from  time  to  time,  that  orders  were  passing  among  the 


CHABLES  SMALLEY.  2B9 

troops,  while  the  glittering  uniform  of  a staff  officer,  as  he  gal- 
loped from  the  town,  bespoke  the  note  of  preparation. 

“Dismount.  Steady;  quietly,  my  lads,”  said  the  Colonel,  as 
he  alighted  upon  the  grass.  “ Let  the  men  have  their  break- 
fast.” 

The  little  amphitheater  we  occupied  hid  us  entirely  from  all 
observation  on  the  part  of  the  enemy,  but  equally  so  excluded 
us  from  perceiving  their  movements.  It  may  readily  be  sup- 
posed, then,  with  what  impatience  we  waited  here,  while  the  din 
and  clangor  of  the  French  force,  as  they  marched  and  counter- 
marched so  near  us,  were  clearly  audible.  The  orders  were,  how- 
ever, strict  that  none  should  approach  the  bank  of  the  river,  and 
we  lay  anxiously  awaiting  the  moment  when  this  inactivity 
should  cease.  More  than  one  orderly  had  arrived  among  us, 
bearing  dispatches  from  headquarters;  but  where  our  main  body 
was,  or  what  the  nature  of  the  orders,  ho  one  could  guess.  As 
for  me,  my  excitement  was  at  its  height,  and  I could  not  speak 
for  the  very  tension  of  my  nerves.  The  officers  stood  in  little 
groups  of  two  and  three,  whispering  anxiously  together;  but  all 
I could  collect  was,  that  Soult  had  already  begun  his  retreat 
upon  Amarante,  and  that,  with  the  broad  stream  of  the  Douro 
between  us,  he  defied  our  pursuit. 

“Well,  Charley,”  said  Power,  laying  his  arm  upon  my  shoul- 
der, “ the  French  have  given  us  the  slip  this  time;  they  are 
already  in  march,  and,  even  if  we  dared  force  a passage  in  the 
face  of  such  an  enemy,  it  seems  there  is  not  a boat  to  be  found, 
I have  just  seen  Hammersly.” 

“Indeed!  Where  is  he?”  said  I. 

“ He’s  gone  back  to  Villa  de  Conde;  he  asked  after  you  most 
particularly;  don’t  blush,  man;  I’d  rather  back  your  chance  than 
nis.  notwithstanding  the  long  letter  that  Lucy  sends  him.  Poor 
fellow!  he  has  been  badly  wounded,  but,  it  seems,  declines  going 
back  to  England.” 

“ Captain  Power,”  said  an  orderly,  touching  his  cap,  “ General 
M\irray  desires  to  see  you.” 

Power  hastened  away,  but  returned  in  a few  moments. 

“I  say,  Charley,  there’s  something  in  the  wind  here.  I have 
just  been  ordered  to  try  where  the  stream  is  fordable.  I’ve 
mentioned  your  name  to  the  General,  and  I think  you’ll  be  sent 
for  soon.  Good-bye.” 

I buckled  on  my  sword,  and  looking  to  my  girths,  stood  watch- 
ing the  groups  around  me;  when  suddenly  a dragoon  pulled  his 
horse  short  up,  and  asked  a man  near  me  if  Mr.  O’Malley  was 
there. 

“ Yes;  I am  he.” 

“ Orders  from  General  Murray,  sir,”  said  the  man,  and  rode 
off  at  a canter. 

I opened  and  saw  that  the  dispatch  was  addressed  to  Sir  Ar- 
thur Wellesley,  with  the  mere  words,  “with  haste,”  on  the 
envelope. 

Now  which  way  to  turn  I knew  not;  so  springing  into  the 
saddle,  I galloped  to  where  Colonel  Merivale  was  standing 
talking  to  the  Colonel  of  a heavy  dragoon  regiment. 


240  CHARLES  CMALLEY. 

“ May  I ask,  sir,  by  which  road  I am  to  proceed  with  this  dis-. 
patch  ?” 

“ By  the  river,  sir,”  said  the  heavy,  a large,  dark-browned 
man,  with  a most  forbidding  look.  You‘11  soon  seethe  troops; 
you’d  better  stir  yourself,  sir,  or  Sir  Arthur  is  not  very  likely  to 
be  pleased  with  you.” 

Without  venturing  a reply  to  what  I felt  a somewhat  unneces- 
sary taunt,  I lashed  spurs  to  my  horse,  and  turned  toward  the 
river.  I had  not  gained  the  bank  above  a minute,  when  the  loud 
ringing  of  a rifle  struck  upon  my  ear:  bang  went  another  and 
another.  I hurried  on,  however,  at  the  top  of  my  speed,  think- 
ing only  of  my  mission  and  its  pressing  haste.  As  I turned  an 
angle  of  the  stream,  the  vast  column  of  the  British  came  in 
sight,  and  scarcely  had  my  eye  rested  upon  them  when  my  horse 
staggered  forward,  plunged  twice  with  his  head  nearly  to  the 
earth,  and  then,  rearing  madly  up,  fell  backward,  upon  the 
ground.  Crushed  and  bruised  as  I felt  by  my  fall,  I was  soon 
roused  to  the  necessity  of  exertion:  for,  as  I disengaged  myself 
from  the  poor  beast,  I discovered  he  had  been  killed  by  a bullet 
in  the  counter;  and  scarcely  had  I recovered  my  legs  when  a 
shot  struck  my  shako  and  grazed  my  temples.  I quickly  threw 
myself  to  the  ground,  and,  creeping  on  for  some  yards,  reached 
at  last  some  rising  ground,  from  which  I rolled  gently  down- 
ward into  a little  declivity,  sheltered  by  the  bank  from  the 
French  Are. 

When  I arrived  at  headquarters,  I was  dreadfully  fatigued 
and  heated;  but  resolving  not  to  rest  till  I had  delivered  my  dis- 
patches, I hastened  toward  the  convent  of  La  Sierra,  where  I was 
told  the  Commander-in-chief  was. 

As  I came  into  the  court  of  the  convent,  fllled  with  general 
oflicers  and  people  of  the  staff,  I was  turning  to  ask  how  I should 
proceed,  when  Hixley  caught  my  eye. 

“ Well,  O’Malley,  what  brings  you  here?” 

‘‘  Dispatches  from  General  Murray.” 

“Indeed;  oh,  follow  me.” 

He  hurried  me  rapidly  through  the  buzzing  crowd,  and  as- 
cending a large  gloomy  stair,  introduced  me  into^a  room,  where 
about  a dozen  persons^  in  uniform  were  writing  at  a long  deal 
table. 

“Captain  Gordon,”  said  he,  addressing  one  of  them,  “dis- 
patches requiring  immediate  perusal  have  just  been  brought  by 
this  officer.” 

Before  the  sentence  was  flnished  the  door  opened,  and  a short, 
slight  man,  in  a gray  undress  coat,  with  a wliite  cravat  and 
cocked  hat,  entered.  The  dead  silence  that  ensued  jvas  not 
necessary  to  assure  me  that  he  was  one  in  authority;  the  look 
of  command  his  bold,  stern  features  presented;  the  sl)arp, 
piercing  eye;  the  compressed  lip;  the  impressive  expression  of 
the  whole  face,  told  plainly  that  he  was  one  who  held  equally 
himself  and  others  in  mastery. 

“Send  General  Sherbroke  here,”  said  he  to  an  aid-de-camp. 
“ Let  the  light  brigade  march  into  position,”  and  then  turning 
suddenly  to  me,  “ whose  dispatches  are  these?” 


CHARLES  OmALLEY. 


241 


**  General  Murray’s,  sir.” 

I needed  no  more  than  that  look  to  assure  me  that  this  was  he 
of  whom  I had  heard  so  much,  and  of  whom  the  world  was  still 
to  hear  so  much  more. 

He  opened  them  quickly,  and,  glaucing  his  eye  across  the 
contents,  crushed  the  paper  in  his  hand.  Just  as  he  did  so,  a 
spot  of  blood  upon  the  envelope  attracted  his  attention. 

‘‘  How’s  this!  are  you  wounded?” 

“No,  sir;  my  horse  was  killed ” 

“Very  well,  sir;  join  your  brigade.  But  stay,  I shall  have 
orders  for  you.  Well,  Waters,  what  news  ?” 

This  question  was  addressed  to  an  officer  in  a staff  uniform, 
who  entered  at  the  moment,  followed  by  the  short  and  bulky 
figure  of  a monk,  his  shaven  crown  and  large  cassock  strongly 
contrasting  with  the  gorgeous  glitter  of  the  costumes  around 
him. 

“ I say,  who  have  we  here?” 

“ The  Prior  of  Amarante,  sir,”  replied  Waters,  “who  has  just 
come  over.  We  have  already,  by  his  aid,  secured  three  large 
barges ” 

“Let  the  artillery  take  up  position  in  the  convent  at  once,” 
said  Sir  Arthur,  interrupting.  “ The  boats  will  be  brought  round 
to  the  small  Cl eek  beneath  the  orchard.  You,  sir,”  turning  to 
me,  “will  convey  to  General  Murray — but  you  appear  weak. 
You,  Gordon,  will  desire  Murray  to  effect  a crossing  at  Avincas 
with  the  Germans  and  the  14th.  Sherbroke’s  division  will  occu- 
py the  Villa  Nuova.  What  number  of  men  can  that  Seminary 
take?” 

“ From  three  to  four  hundred,  sir.  The  padre  mentions  that 
all  the  vigilance  of  the  enemy  is  limited  to  the  river  below  the 
town.” 

“I  perceive  it,”  was  the  short  reply  of  Sir  Arthur,  as,  placing 
his  hands  carelessly  behind  his  back,  he  walked  toward  the  win- 
dow, and  looked  out  upon  the  river. 

All  was  still  as  death  in  the  council:  not  a lip  murmured:  the 
feeling  of  respect  for  him  in  whose  presence  we  were  standing 
checked  every  thought  of  utterance,  while  the  stupendous 
gravity  of  the  events  before  us  engrossed  every  mind  and  occu- 
pied every  heart.  I was  standing  near  the  window;  the  effect 
of  my  fall  had  stunned  me  for  a time,  but  I was  gradually  re- 
covering, and  watched  with  a thrilling  heart  the  scenes  before 
me.  Great  and  absorbing  as  was  my  interest  in  what  was  pass- 
ing without,  it  was  nothing  compared  with  what  I felt  as  I 
looked  at  him  upon  whom  our  destiny  was  then  hanging.  I had 
ample  time  to  scan  his  features  and  canvass  their  every  linea- 
ment. Never  before  did  I look  upon  such  perfect  impassibility; 
their  cold,  determined  expression  was  crossed  by  no  show  of 
passion  or  impatience.  All  was  rigid  and  motionless,  and, 
whatever  might  have  been  the  workings  of  the  spirit  within, 
certainly  no  external  sign  betrayed  them;  and  yet  what  a mo- 
ment for  him  must  that  have  been!  Before  him,  separated  by  a 
deep  and  rapid  river,  lay  the  conquering  legions  of  France,  led 
on  by  one  second  alone  to  him  whose  very  name  had  been  the 


242 


CHABLES  aMALLEY. 


prestige  of  victory.  Unprovided  with  every  regular  means  of 
transport,  in  the  broad  glare  of  day,  in  open  defiance  of  the  ser- 
ried ranks  and  thundering  artillery,  he  dared  the  deed.  What 
must  have  been  his  confidence  in  the  soldiers  he  commanded  I 
what  must  have  been  his  reliance  upon  his  own  genius!  As 
such  thoughts  rushed  through  my  mind  the  door  opened,  and 
an  ofificer  entered  hastily,  and  whispering  a few  words  to 
Colonel  Waters,  left  the  room. 

One  boat  is  already  brought  up  to  the  crossing  place,  and 
entirely  concealed  by  the  wall  of  the  orchard.” 

“ Let  the  men  cross,”  was  the  brief  reply. 

No  other  word  was  spoken,  as  turning  from  the  window,  he 
closed  his  telescope,  and,  followed  by  all  the  others,  descended 
to  the  court- yard. 

This  simple  order  was  enough;  an  officer  with  a company  of 
the  Buffs,  embarked,  and  thus  began  the  passage  of  tlie  Douro. 

So  engrossed  was  I in  my  s^igilant  observation  of  our  leader, 
that  I would  gladly  have  remained  at  the  convent,  when  I re- 
ceived an  order  to  join  my  brigade,  to  which  a detachment  of  ar- 
tillery was  already  proceeding. 

As  I reached  Avintas  ail  was  in  motion.  The  cavalry  was  in 
readiness  beside  the  river;  but  as  yet  no  boats  had  been  discov- 
ered, and,  such  was  the  impatience  of  the  men  to  cross,  it  was 
with  difficulty  they  were  prevented  trying  the  passage  by  swim* 
ming,  when  suddenly  Power  appeared,  followed  by  several  fish- 
ermen. Three  or  four  small  skiffs  had  been  found,  half  sunk  in 
mud,  among  the  rushes,  and  with  such  frail  assistance  we  com- 
menced to  cross. 

There  will  be  something  to  write  home  to  Galway  soon, 
Charley,  or  I'm  terribly  mistaken,”  said  Fred,  as  he  sprang  into 
the  boat  beside  me;  “ was  I not  a true  prophet  when  I told  you, 
‘ We’d  meet  the  French  in  the  morning  ?’  ” 

‘^They're  at  it  already,”  said  Hixley,  as  a wreath  of  blue 
smoke  floated  across  the  stream  below  us,  and  the  loud  boom 
of  a large  gun  sounded  through  the  air. 

Then  came  a deafening  shout  followed  by  a rattling  volley  of 
small  arms,  gradually  swelling  into  a hot  sustained  fire,  through 
which  the  cannon  pealed  at  intervals.  Several  large  meadows 
lay  along  the  river  side,  where  our  brigade  was  drawn  up  as  the 
detachments  landed  from  the  boats;  and  here,  although  nearly  a 
league  distant  from  the  town,  we  now  heard  the  din  and  crash 
of  battle,  which  increased  every  moment.  The  cannonade  from 
the  Sierra  convent,  which  at  first  was  merely  the  fire  of  single 
guns,  now  thundered  away  in  one  long  roll,  amid  which  the 
sounds  of  falling  walls  and  crashing  roofs  was  mingled.  It  was 
evident  to  us,  from  the  continual  fire  kept  up,  that  the  lauding 
had  been  effected,  while  the  swelling  tide  of  musketry  told  that 
fresh  troops  were  momentarily  coming  up. 

In  less  than  twenty  minutes  our  brigade  was  formed,  and  we 
now  only  waited  for  two  light  four-pounders  to  be  landed,  when 
an  officer  galloped  up  in  haste,  and  called  out: 

‘‘The  French  are  in  retreat,”  and,  pointing  at  the  same  mo- 
ment to  the  Vallonga  road,  we  saw  a long  line  of  smoke  and 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


243 


dust  leading  from  the  town,  through  which,  we  gazed,  the 
colors  of  the  enemy  might  be  seen,  as  they  defiled,  while  the  un- 
broken line  of  the  wagons  and  heavy  baggage  proved  that  it 
was  no  partial  movement,  but  the  army  itself  retreating. 

“Fourteenth,  threes  about,  close  up,  trot,”  called  out  the  loud 
and  manly  voice  of  our  leader,  and  the  heavy  tramp  of  our 
squadrons  shook  the  very  ground  as  we  advanced  toward  the 
road  to  Vallogna. 

As  we  came  on,  the  scene  became  one  of  overwhelming  ex- 
citement; the  masses  of  the  enemy  that  poured  unceasingly 
from  the  town  could  now  be  distinguished  more  clearly,  and 
amid  all  the  crash  of  gun  carriages  and  caissons,  the  voices  of 
the  staff  officers  rose  high  as  they  hurried  along  the  retreating 
battalions.  A troop  of  flying  artillery  galloped  forth  at  top 
speed,  and,  wheeling  their  guns  into  position  with  the  speed  of 
lightning,  prepared  by  a flanking  fire  to  cover  the  retiring  col- 
umn. The  gunners  sprang  from  their  seats,  the  guns  were  al- 
ready unlimbered,  when  Sir  George  Murray,  riding  up  at  our 
left^  called  out: 

“Forward;  close  up;  charge!” 

The  words  were  scarcely  siDoken,  when  a loud  cheer  answered 
the  welcome  sound,  and  at  the  same  instant  the  long  line  of  shin- 
ing helmets  passed  with  the  speed  of  a whirlwind;  the  pace  in- 
creased at  every  stride,  the  ranks  grev^  closer,  and,  like  the  dread 
force  of  some  mighty  engine,  we  fell  upon  the  foe.  I have  felt 
all  the  glorious  enthusiasm  of  a fox-hunt,  when  the  loud  cry  of 
the  hound,  answered  by  the  cheer  of  the  joyous  huntsman, 
stirred  the  very  heart  within,  but  never  till  now  did  I know  how 
far  higher  the  excitement  reaches,  when,  man  to  man,  saber  to 
saber,  arm  to  arm,  we  ride  forward  to  the  battle-field.  On  we 
went,  the  loud  shout  of  “ forward  ” still  ringing  in  our  ears. 
One  broken,  irregular  discharge  from  the  French  guns  shook  the 
head  of  our  advancing  column,  but  stayed  us  not  as  we  galloped 
madly  on. 

I remember  no  more;  the  din,  the  smoke,  the  [crash — the  cry 
for  quarter  mingled  with  the  shout  of  victory — the  flying  enemy 
— the  agonizing  shrieks  of  the  wounded — are  all  co-mingled  in 
my  mind,  but  leave  no  trace  of  clearness  or  connection  between 
them,  and  it  was  only  when  the  column  wheeled  to  reform, 
behind  the  advancing  squadrons,  that  I awoke  from  my  trance 
of  maddening  excitement,  and  perceived  that  we  had  carried 
the  position,  and  cut  off  the  guns  of  the  enemy. 

“Well  done,  14th!”  said  an  old  gray  headed  colonel,  as  he 
rode  along  our  line;  “ gallantly  done,  lads!”  The  blood  trickled 
from  a saber  cut  on  his  temple,  along  his  cheek,  as  he  spoke; 
but  he  either  knew  it  not,  or  heeded  it  not. 

“ There  go  the  Germans!”  said  Power,  pointing  to  the  re- 
mainder of  our  brigade,  as  they  charged  furiously  upon  the 
French  infantry,  and  rode  them  dorvvn  in  masses. 

Our  guns  came  up  at  this  time,  and  a plunging  fire  was  opened 
upon  the  thick  and  retreating  ranks  of  the  enemy;  the  carnage 
must  have  been  terrific,  for  the  long  breaches  in  their  lines  showed 
where  the  squadrons  of  the  cavalry  had  passed,  or  the  most 


244 


CSAULEB  aMALLEY. 


destructive  tide  of  the  artillery  had  swept  through  them.  The 
speed  of  the  flying  columns  grew  momentarily  more;  the  road 
became  blocked,  too,  by  broken  carriages  and  wounded;  and,  to 
add  to  their  discomfiture,  a damaging  fire  now  opened  from  the 
town  upon  the  retreating  column,  while  the  brigade  of  Guards 
and  the  29th  pressed  hotly  on  their  rear. 

The  scene  was  now  beyond  anything  maddening  in  its  interest. 
From  the  walls  of  Oporto  the  English  infantry  poured  forth  in 
pursuit;  while  the  whole  river  was  covered  with  boats,  as  they 
still  contitiued  to  cross  over.  The  artillery  thundered  from  the 
Sierra,  to  protect  the  landing,  for  it  was  even  still  contested  in 
places;  and  the  cavalry,  charging  in  flank,  swept  the  broken 
ranks,  and  bore  down  upon  their  right  squares. 

It  was  now,  when  the  full  tide  of  victory  ran  highest  in  our 
favor,  that  we  were  ordered  to  retire  from  the  road.  Column 
after  column  passed  before  us,  unmolested  and  unassailed;  and 
not  even  a cannon-shot  arrested  their  steps. 

Some  unaccountable  timidity  of  our  leader  directed  this  move- 
ment; and  while  before  our  very  eyes  the  gallant  infantry  were 
charging  the  r(3tiring  columns,  we  remained  still  and  inactive. 

How  little  did  the  sense  of  praise  we  had  already  won  repay 
us  for  the  shame  and  indignation  we  experienced  at  this  moment, 
as  with  burning  cheek  and  compressed  lip  we  watched  the  re- 
treating files.  ‘‘What  can  he  mean?”  “ Is  there  not  some  mis- 
take?” “ Are  we  never  to  charge  ?”  were  the  muttered  questions 
around,  as  a staff  officer  galloped  up  with  the  order  to  take 
ground  still  further  back,  and  nearer  to  the  river. 

The  wmrd  was  scarcely  spoken  when  a young  officer,  in  the 
uniform  of  a general,  dashed  impetuously  up;  he  held  his  plumed 
cap  high  above  his  head,  as  he  called  out:  “ 14th,  follow  me! 
Left  face — wheel — charge!” 

So,  with  the  word,  we  were  upon  them.  The  French  rear- 
guard was  at  this  moment  at  the  narrowest  part  of  the  road, 
which  opened  by  a bridge  upon  a large  open  space,  so  that, 
forming  with  a narrow  front,  and  favored  by  a declivity  in  the 
ground,  we  actually  rode  them  down.  Twice  the  French  formed, 
and  twice  were  they  broken.  Meanwhile  the  carnage  was  dread- 
ful on  both  sides;  our  fellows  dashing  madly  forward  where  the 
ranks  were  thickest,  the  enemy  resisting  with  the  stubborn 
courage  of  men  fighting  for  then-  last  spot  of  ground.  So  im- 
petuous was  the  charge  of  our  squadrons  that  we  stopped  not 
till,  piercing  the  dense  column  of  the  retreating  mass,  we  reached 
the  open  ground  beyond.  Here  we  wheeled,  and  prepared  once 
more  to  meet  them,  when  suddenly  some  squadrons  of  cuirassiers 
debouched  from  the  road,  and,  supported  by  a field-piece,  showed 
front  against  us.  This  was  the  rnoment  that  the  remainder  of 
our  brigade  should  have  come  to  our  aid,  but  not  a man  appeared. 
However,  there  was  not  an  instant  to  be  lost;  already  the  plung- 
ing fire  of  the  four- pounder  had  swept  through  our  files,  and 
every  moment  increased  our  danger.  | 

“ Once  more,  my  lads,  forward!”  cried  out  our  gallant  leader, 
Sir  Charles  Stewart,  as  he,  waving  his  saber,  dashed  into  the 
thickest  of  the  fray. 


CBARLF.S  aMALLET. 


245 


So  sudden  was  our  charge  that  we  were  upon  them  before 
they  were  prepared.  And  here  ensued  a terrific  struggle;  for,  as 
the  cavalry  of  the  enemy  gave  way  before  us,  we  came  upon  the 
close  ranks  of  the  infantry  at  half-pistol  distance,  who  poured  a 
withering  volley  into  us  as  we  approached.  But  what  could 
arrest  the  sweeping  torrent  of  our  brave  fellows,  though  every 
moment  falling  m numbers  ? 

Harvey,  our  Major,  lost  his  arm  near  the  shoulder;  scarcely 
an  officer  was  not  wounded.  Power  received  a deep  saber-cut  in 
the  cheek,  from  an  aid-de-camp  of  General  Foy,  in  return  for  a 
wound  he  gave  the  General;  while  I,  in  my  endeavor  to  save 
General  Laborde,  when  unhorsed,  was  cut  down  through  the 
helmet,  and  so  stunned  that  I remembered  no  more  around  me; 
I kept  my  saddle,  it  is  true,  but  I lost  every  sense  of  conscious- 
ness; my  first  glimmering  of  reason  coming  to  my  aid  as  I lay 
upon  the  river  bank,  and  felt  my  faithful  follower  Mike  bathing 
my  temples  with  water,  as  he  kept  up  a running  fire  of  lamenta- 
tions for  my  being  murthered  so  young. 

“Are  you  better,  Mister  Charles  ? Spake  to  me,  alanah;  say 
that  you’re  not  kilt,  darling — do  now.  Oh,  wirrab!  what’ll  I 
ever  say  to  the  master?  and  you  doing  so  beautiful!  Wouldn’t 
he  give  the  best  baste  in  his  stable  to  be  looking  at  you  to-day  ? 
There,  take  a sup;  it’s  only  water.  Bad  luck  to  them,  but  it's 
hard  work  heatin’  them;  they’re  only  gone  now.  That’s  right — 
now  you’re  coming  to.” 

“ Where  am  I,  Mike?” 

“ It’s  here  you  are,  darling,  resting  yourself.” 

“Well,  Charley,  my  poor  fellow,  you’ve  got  sore  bones  too,” 
cried  Power,  as,  his  face  swathed  in  bandages,  and  covered  with 
blood,  he  lay  down  on  the  grass  beside  me.  “ It  was  a gallant 
thing  while  it  lasted,  but  has  cost  us  dearl}^.  Poor  Hixley ” 

“ What  of  him?”  said  I,  anxiously. 

“ Poor  fellow!  he  has  seen  his  last  battle-field.  He  fell  across 
me,  as  we  came  out  upon  the  road;  I lifted  him  up  in  my  arms 
and  bore  him  along  above  fifty  yards;  but  he  was  stone  dead— 
not  a sigh,  not  a word  escaped  him;  shot  through  the  forehead.” 
As  he  spoke,  his  lips  trembled,  and  his  voice  sunk  to  a mere 
whisper  at  the  last  words:  “You  remember  what  he  said  last 
night.  ‘ Poor  fellow!  he  was  every  inch  a soldier.’  ” 

Such  was  his  epitaph. 

I turned  my  head  toward  the  scene  of  our  late  encounter; 
some  dismantled  guns  and  broken  wagons  alone  marked  the 
spot;  while,  far  in  the  distance,  the  dust  of  the  retreating  col- 
umns showed  the  beaten  enemy,  as  they  hurried  toward  the 
frontiers  of  Spain, 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

THE  MORNING. 

There  are  few  sadder  things  in  life  than  the  day  after  a battle# 
The  high-beating  hope — the  bounding  spirits  have  passed  away; 
and  in  their  stead  oome  the  depressing  reaction  by  which  Jevery 


246 


CHARLES  O^MALLET. 


over-wrought  excitement  is  foliowed.  With  far  different  eyes 
do  we  look  upon  the  compact  ranks  and  glistening  fires— 

With  helm  arrayed, 

And  lance  and  blade, 

And  plume  in  the  gay  wind  dancing, 

and  upon  the  cold  and  barren  heath,  whose  only  memory  of  the 
past  is  the  blood-stained  turf,  the  mangled  corpse,  the  broken 
gun,  the  shattered  wall,  the  well-trodden  earth  where  columns 
stood,  the  cut  up  ground  where  cavalry  had  charged;  these  are 
the  sad  relics  of  all  the  chivalry  of  yesterday. 


The  morning  which  followed  the  battle  of  the  Douro  was  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  I ever  remember.  There  was  that  kind  of 
freshness  and  elasticity  in  the  air  which  certain  days  possess, 
and  communicate  by  some  magic  their  properties  to  ourselves. 
The  thrush  was  singing  gayly  out  from  every  grove  and  wooden 
dell ; the  very  river  had  a sound  of  gladness  as  it  rippled  on 
against  its  sedgy  banks;  the  foliage,  too,  sparkled  in  the  fresh 
dew,  as  in  its  robes  of  holiday,  and  all  looked  bright  and  happy. 

We  were  picketed  near  the  river,  upon  a gently  rising  ground, 
from  which  the  view  extended  for  miles  in  every  direction. 
Above  us,  the  stream  came  winding  down  amid  broad  and  fer- 
tile fields  of  tall  grass  and  waving  corn,  backed  by  deep  and 
mellow  woods,  which  were  lost  to  the  view  upon  the  distant 
hills;  below,  the  river,  widening  as  it  went,  pursued  a straighter 
course,  or  turned  with  bolder  curves,  till,  passing  beneath  the 
town,  it  spread  into  a large  sheet  of  glassy  water,  as  it  opened 
into  the  sea.  The  sun  was  just  rising  as  I looked  upon  this  glo- 
rious scene,  and  already  the  tall  spires  of  Oporto  were  tipped 
with  a bright  rosy  hue,  while  the  massive  towers  and  dark 
walls  threw  their  lengthened  shadows  far  across  the  plain. 

The  fires  of  the  bivouac  still  burned,  but  all  slept  around  them; 
and  not  a sound  was  heard,  save  the  tramp  of  a patrol,  or  the 
short,  quick  cry  of  the  sentry.  I sat  lost  in  meditation,  or  rather 
in  that  state  of  dreamy  thoughtfulness,  in  which  the  past  and 
present  are  combined,  and  the  absent  are  alike  before  us  as  are 
the  things  we  look  upon. 

One  moment  I felt  as  though  I were  describing  to  my  uncle 
the  battle  of  the  day  before,  pointing  out  where  yve  stood,  and 
how  we  charged;  then  again  I was  at  home  beside  the  broad, 
bleak  Shannon  and  the  brown  hills  of  Scariff.  I watched  with 
beating  heart  the  tall  Sierra,  where  our  path  lay  for  the  future, 
and  then  turned  my  thoughts  to  him  whose  name  was  so  soon  to 
be  received  in  England  with  a nation’s  pride  and  gratitude;  and 
panted  for  a soldier’s  glory. 

As  thus  I followed  every  rising  fancy,  I heard  a step  approach: 
it  was  a figure  muffled  in  a cavalry" cloak,  which  I soon  per- 
ceived to  be  Power. 

‘‘Charley!”  said  he,  in  a half  whisper;  “ get  up  and  come  with 
me.  You  are  aware  of  the  general  order,  that,  while  in  pursuit 
of  an  enemy,  all  military  honors  to  the  dead  are  forbidden;  but 
we  wish  to  place  our  poor  comrade  in  the  earth  before  we  leave.’' 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


247 


I followed  down  a little  path,  through  a grove  of  tall  beech- 
trees  that  opened  upon  a litthi  grassy  terrace  beside  the  river.  A 
stunted  olive  tree  stood  by  itself  in  the  midst,  and  there  I found 
five  of  our  brother  officers  standing,  wrapped  in  their  wide  cloaks. 
As  we  pressed  each  other’s  hands,  not  a word  was  spoken : each 
heart  was  full;  and  hard  features  that  never  quailed  before  the 
foe  were  now  shaken  with  the  convulsive  spasm  of  agony,  or 
compressed  with  stern  determination  to  seem  calm. 

A cavalry  helmet  and  a large  blue  cloak  lay  upon  the  grass. 
The  narrow  grave  was  already  dug  beside  it;  and,  in  the  death- 
like stillness  around,  the  service  for  the  dead  was  read;  the  last 
words  were  over;  we  stooped  and  placed  the  corpse,  wrapped 
up  ifi  the  broad  mantle,  in  the  earth;  we  replaced  the  mold, 
and  stood  silently  around  the  spot.  The  trumpet  of  our  regi- 
ment at  this  moment  sounded  the  call;  its  cleaj*  notes  rang 
sharply  through  the  thin  air — it  was  the  soldier’s  requiem!  and 
we  turned  away  without  speaking,  and  returned  to  our 
quarters. 

I had  never  known  poor  Hixley  till  the  day  or  two  before, 
but  somehow  my  grief  for  him  was  deep  and  heartfelt.  It  was 
not  that  his  frank  and  manly  bearing — his  bold  and  military  air, 
had  gained  upon  me.  No,  these  were  indeed  qualities  to  attract 
and  delight  me;  but  he  had  obtained  a stronger  and  faster 
hold  upon  my  affections — he  spoke  to  me  of  home! 

Of  all  the  ties  that  bind  us  to  the  chance  aquaintances  we 
meet  with  in  life,  what  can  equal  this  one?  What  a claim  upon 
your  love  has  he  who  can,  by  some  passing  word,  some  fast- 
jflitting  thought,  bring  back  the  days  of  your  youth!  What 
interest  can  he  not  * excite,  by  some  anecdote  of  your  boyish 
days,  some  well-remembered  trait  of  your  youthful  daring  or 
early  enterprise ! Many  a year  of  sunshine  and  of  storm  has 
passed  above  my  head;  1 have  not  been  without  my  moments 
of  gratified  pride  and  rewarded  ambition;  but  my  heart  has  never 
responded  so  fully,  so  thankfully,  so  proudly  to  these — such  as 
they  were — as  to  the  simple,  touching  words  of  one  who  knew 
my  early  home  and  loved  its  inmates. 

‘‘Well,  Fitzroy,  what  news?”  said  I,  roused  from  my  mus- 
ing, as  an  aid-de  camp  galloped  up  at  full  speed. 

“ Tell  Merivale  to  get  the  regiment  under  arms  at  once.  Sir 
Arthur  Wellesley  will  be  here  in  less  than  half  an  hour.  You 
may  look  for  the  route  immediately.  Where  are  the  Germans 
quartered?” 

“ Lower  down;  beside  that  grove  of  beech- trees,  next  the 
river.” 

Scarcely  was  my  reply  spoken  when  he  dashed  spurs  to  his 
horse,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight.  Meanwhile  the  plain  be- 
neath me  presented  an  animated  and  splendid  spectacle.  The 
different  corps  were  falling  into  position  to  the  enlivening 
sounds  of  their  quickstep,  the  trumpets  of  the  cavalry  rang 
loudly  througli  the  valley,  and  the  clatter  of  sabers  and  saber- 
tasches,  joined  with  the  hollow  tramp  of  the  horses,  as  the  squad- 
rons  came  up. 


248 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


I had  not  a moment  to  lose,  so ' hastening  back  to  my  quar- 
ters, I found  Mike  waiting  with  my  horse. 

“ Captain  Power’s  before  you,  sir,”  said  he,  “ and  you’ll  have 
to  make  haste;  the  regiments  are  under  arms  already.” 

From  the  little  mound  where  I stood,  I could  see  the  long  line 
of  cavalry  as  they  deployed  into  the  plain,  followed  by  the  horse 
artillery,  which  brought  up  the  rear. 

‘‘  This  looks  like  a march,”  thought  T,  as  I pressed  forward  to 
join  my  companions. 

T had  not  advanced  above  a hundred  yards  through  a narrow 
ravine,  when  the  measured  tread  of  infantry  fell  upon  my  ears. 
I pulled  up  to  slacken  my  pace,  just  as  the  head  of  a column 
turned  around  the  angle  of  the  road  and  came  in  view.  Thdtall 
caps  of  a grenadier  company  were  the  first  thing  I beheld  as  they 
came  on  without  roll  of  drum  and  sound  of  fife.  I watched  with 
a soldier’s  pride  the  manly  bearing  and  gallant  step  of  the  dense 
mass  as  they  defiled  before  me.  I was  struck  no  less  by  them 
than  by  a certain  look  of  a steady  but  somber  cast  which  each 
man  wore. 

“What can  this  mean ?”  thought  I. 

My  first  impression  was,  that  a military  execution  was  about 
to  take  place;  the  next  moment  solved  my  doubt,  for,  as  the  last 
files  of  the  grenadiers  wheeled  round,  a dense  mass  behind  came 
in  sight,  whose  unarmed  hands  and  downcast  air,  at  once  be- 
spoke them  prisoners  of  war. 

What  a sad  sight  it  was!  There  was  the  old  and  weather- 
beaten grenadier,  erect  in  frame  and  firm  in  step,  his  gray  mus- 
tache scarcely  concealing  the  scowl  that  curled  his  lip,  hand- 
cuffed with  the  young  and  daring  conscript — even  yet  a mere 
boy;  their  march  was  regular,  their  gaze  ^eadfast,  no  look  of 
flinching  courage  there.  On  they  came,  a long,  unbroken  line. 
They  looked  not  less  proudly  than  their  captors  around  them. 
As  I looked  with  heavy  heart  upon  them,  my  attention  was 
attracted  to  one  who  marched  alone  behind  the  rest.  He  was  a 
middle-sized  but  handsome  youth  of  some  eighteen  years  at 
most,  his  light  helmet  and  waving  plume  bespoke  him  a chas- 
seur  ail  cheval,  and  I could  plainly  perceive,  in  his  careless,  half- 
saucy  air,  how  indignantly  he  felt  the  position  to  which  the  fate 
of  war  had  reduced  him.  He  caught  my  eyes  fixed  upon  him, 
and  for  an  instant  turned  upon  me  a gaze  of  open  and  palpable 
defiance,  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height  and  crossing  his 
arms  upon  his  breast;  but,  probably,  perceiving  in  my  look  more 
of  interest  than  truimph.  Ids  countenance  suddenly  changed,  a 
deep  blush  suffused  his  cheek,  his  eye  beamed  with  a softened 
and  kindly  expression,  and,  carrying  his  hand  to  his  helmet,  he 
saluted  me,  saying,  in  a voice  of  singular  sweetness,  “Je  vans 
souhaite  un  meilleur  sort,  cainarade^ 

I bowed,  and  muttering  something  in  return,  was  about  to 
make  some  inquiry  concerning  him,  when  the  loud  call  of  the 
trumpet  rang  through  the  valley,  and  apprized  me  that,  in  my 
interest  for  the  prisoners,  I had  forgotten  all  else,  and  was  prob- 
ably incurring  censure  for  my  absence. 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


249 


CHAPTER  XLVIL 

THE  REVIEW. 

When  I joined  the  group  of  my  brother  oflBcers,  who  stood 
gayly  chatting  and  laughing  together  before  our  lines,  I was 
much  surprised — nay,  almost  shocked  to  find  how  little  seeming 
impression  had  been  made  upon  them  by  the  sad  duty  we  had 
performed  that  morning. 

When  last  we  met,  each  eye  was  downcast — each  heart  was 
full;  sorrow  for  him  we  had  lost  from  amongst  us  forever, 
mingling  with  the  awful  sense  of  our  own  uncertain  tenure 
here,  had  laid  its  impression  upon  each  brow;  but  now,  scarcely 
an  hour  had  elapsed  and  all  were  cheerful  and  eJated.  The  last 
shovelful  of  earth  upon  the  grave  seemed  to  have  buried  both 
the  dead  and  the  mourning.  And  such  is  woe!  and  such  the 
temperament  it  forms!  Events  so  strikingly  opposite  in  their 
character  and  influences  succeed  so  rapidity  one  upon  another, 
that  the  mind  is  kept  in  one  whirl  of  excitement,  and  at  length 
accustoms  itself  to  change  with  every  phase  of  circumstances; 
and  between  joy  and  grief,  hope  and  despondency,  enthusiasm 
and  depression,  there  is  neither  breadth  nor  interval;  they  fol- 
low each  other  as  naturally  as  morning  succeeds  night. 

I had  not  much  time  for  such  reflections;  scarcely  had  I 
saluted  the  ofiicers  about  me,  when  the  loud  prolonged  roll  of 
the  drums  along  the  line  of  infantry  in  the  valley,  followed  by 
the  sharp  clatter  of  muskets  as  they  were  raised  to  the  shoulder, 
announced  the  troops  were  under  arms,  and  the  review  begun. 

“Have  you  seen  the  general  order  this  morning.  Power?” 
inquired  an  old  officer  beside  me. 

“No;  they  say,  however,  that  ours  are  mentioned.” 

“ Harvey  is  going  on  favorably,”  cried  a young  cornet,  as  he 
galloped  up  to  our  party. 

“Take  ground  to  the  left!”  sung  out  the  clear  voice  of  the 
colonel,  as  he  rode  along  in  front.  “Fourteenth,  I am  happy 
to  inform  you  that  your  conduct  has  met  approval  in  the  high- 
est quarter.  I have  just  received  the  general  orders,  in  which 
this  occurs: 

‘ ‘ ‘ The  timely  passage  of  the  Douro,  and  subsequent  move- 
ments upon  the  enemy’s  flank,  by  Lieutenant-General  Sher- 
broke,  wdth  the  Guards  and  29th  Regiment;  and  the  bravery  of 
the  two  squadrons  of  the  14th  Light  Dragoons,  under  the  com- 
mand of  Major  Harvey,  and  led  by  the  Honorable  Brigadier- 
General  Charles  Stewart,  obtained  the  victory  ’ — Mark  that,  my 
lads!  Obtained  the  victory — ‘ which  has  contributed  so  much  to 
the  honor  of  the  troops  on  this  day.’  ” 

The  words  were  hardly  spoken,  when  a tremendous  cheer  burst 
from  the  whole  line  at  once. 

“ Steady,  Fourteenth!  steady,  lads!”  said  the  gallant  old 
Colonel,  as  he  raised  his  hand  gently;  “the  staff  is  approach- 
ing.” 

At  the  same  moment,  the  white  plumes  appeared  rising  above 
the  brow  of  the  hill.  On  they  came,  glittering  in  all  the  splen- 


250 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


dor  of  aigulettes  and  orders — all,  save  one.  He  rode  foremost, 
upon  a small,  compact  black  horse;  his  dress,  a plain  gray  frock, 
fastened  at  the  waist  by  a red  sash;  his  cocked  hat  alone  be- 
spoke in  its  plume,  the  general  officer.  He  galloped  rapidly 
on  till  he  came  to  the  center  of  the  line,  then,  turning  short 
around,  he  [scanned  the  ranks  from  end  to  end  with  an  eagle 
glance. 

“ Colonel  Merivale,  you  have  made  known  to  your  regiment 
my  opinion  of  them,  as  expressed  in  general  orders?” 

The  Colonel  bowed  low  in  acquiescence. 

“ Fitzroy,  you  have  got  the  memorandum,  I hope  ?” 

The  aid-de-camp  here  presented  to  Sir  Arthur  a slip  of 
paper,  which  he  continued  to  regard  attentively  for  some  min- 
utes. 

“ Captain  Powel — Power,  I mean.  Captain  Power!” 

Power  rode  out  from  tlie  line. 

“Your  very  distinguished  conduct  yesterday  has  been  re- 
ported to  me.  I shall  have  sincere  pleasure  in  forwarding  your 
name  for  the  vacant  majority.  You  have  forgotten,  Colonel . 
Merivale,  to  send  in  the  name  of  the  officer  who  saved  General 
Laborde’s  life.” 

“ I believe  I have  mentioned  it.  Sir  Arthur,  Mr.  O’Malley.” 

“True,  I beg  pardon;  so  you  have — Mr.  O’Malley;  a very 
young  officer,  indeed — ha,  an  Irishman!  the  south  of  Ireland, 
eh  ?” 

“No,  sir,  the  west.” 

“ Oh,  yes.  Well,  Mr.  O’Malley,  you  are  promoted.  You  have 
the  lieutenancy  in  your  own  regiment.  By  the  bye,  Merivale,” 
here  his  voice  changed  into  a half  laughing  tone,  “ ere  I forget 
it,  pray  let  me  beg  of  you  to  look  into  this  honest  fellow’s  claim; 
he  has  given  me  no  peace  the  entire  morning.” 

As  he  spoke,  I turned  my  eyes  in  the  direction  he  pointed, 
and  to  my  utter  consternation  beheld  my  man  Mickey  Free 
standing  among  the  staff — the  position  he  occupied,  and  the 
presence  he  stood  in,  having  no  more  perceptible  effect  upon 
his  nerves  than  if  he  were  assisting  at  an  Irish  wake;  but  so 
completely  was  I overwhelmed  with  shame  at  the  moment, 
that  the  staff  were  already  far  down  the  lines  ere  I recovered 
my  self' possession,  to  which,  certainly,  I was  in  some  degree  re- 
called by  Master  Mike’s  addressing  me  in  a somewhat  un- 
ploring  voice; 

“ Arrah,  spake  for  me.  Master  Charles,  alanah;  sure  they 
might  do  something  for  me  now,  ay  it  was  only  to  make  me  a 
gauger.” 

Mickey’s  ideas  of  promotion,  thus  insinuatingly  put  forward, 
threw  the  whole  party  around  into  one  burst  of  laughter. 

“ I have  him  down  there,”  said  he,  pointing,  as  he  spoke,  to  a 
thick  grove  of  cork  trees  at  a little  distance. 

“ Who  have  you  got  there,  Mike  ?”  inquired  Power. 

“Devil  a one  o’  me  knows  his  name,”  replied  he;  “ maybe  it’s 
Bony  himself 

“ And  how  do  you  know  he’s  there  stili?” 

“ How  do  I know,  is  it ? didn’t  I tie  him  last  night?’ 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


251 


Curiosity  to  find  out  what  Mickey  could  possibly  allude  to, 
induced  Power  and  myself  to  follow  him  down  the  slope  to  the 
clump  of  trees  I’ve  mentioned.  As  we  came  near,  the  very  dis- 
tinct denunciations  that  issued  from  the  thicket,  proved  pretty 
plainly  the  nature  of  the  affair.  It  was  nothing  less  than  a 
French  officer  of  cavalry,  that  Mike  had  unhorsed  in  the  melee 
and  wishing,  probably,  to  preserve  some  testimony  of  his  prowess, 
had  made  prisoner,  and  tied  him  fast  to  a cork  tree  the  pre- 
ceding evening. 

‘‘  Sacre  bZew,”  said  the  poor  Frenchman,  as  we  approached, 

que  ce  sont  des  saiivagesP^ 

“ Av  it’s  making  your  sowl,  ye  are,”  said  Mike,  ‘‘  you’re  right; 
for,  maybe,  they  won’t  let  me  keep  you  alive.” 

Mike’s  idea  of  a tame  prisoner  threw  me  into  a fit  of  laugh- 
ing, while  Power  asked : 

“ And  what  do  you  want  to  do  with  him,  Mickey?” 

“ The  sorra  one  o’  me  knows,  for  he  spakes  no  dacent  tongue. 
Thegium  thoo,”  said  he,  addressing  the  prisoner,  with  a poke  in 
the  ribs  at  the  same  moment,  “but  sure,  Master  Charles,  he 
might  tache  me  French.” 

There  was  something  so  irresistibly  ludicrous  in  his  tone  and 
look  as  he  said  these  words,  that  both  Power  and  myself  abso- 
lutely roared  with  laughter.  We  began,  however,  to  feel  not  a 
little  ashamed  of  our  position  in  the  business,  and  explained  to 
thd  Frenchman  that  our  worthy  countryman  had  but  little  ex- 
perience of  the  usages  of  war,  while  we  proceeded  to  unbind 
him,  and  liberate  him  from  his  miserable  bondage. 

“It’s  letting  him  loose  you  are.  Captain?  Master  Charles, 
take  care;  begorra,  av  you  had  as  much  trouble  in  catching  him 
as  I had,  you’d  think  twice  about  letting  him  out.  Listen  to  me, 
now,”  here  he  placed  his  closed  fist  within  an  inch  of  the  poor 
prisoner's  nose;  “ listen  to  me,  av  you  say  peas,  by  the  morteal, 
I’ll  not  lave  a whole  bone  in  your  skin.” 

With  some  difficulty  we  persuaded  Mike  that  his  conduct,  so 
far  from  leading  to  his  promotion,  might,  if  known  in  another 
quarter,  procure  him  an  acquaintance  with  the  Provost  Marshal, 
a fact  which,  it  was  plain  to  perceive,  gave  him  but  a very  poor 
impression  of  military  gratitude. 

“Ob,  then,  if  they  were  in  swarms  foment  me,  devil  receave 
the  prisoner  I’ll  take  again.” 

So  saying,  he  slowly  returned  to  the  regiment  while  Power 
and  I,  having  conducted  the  Frenchman  to  the  rear,  cantered 
toward  the  town  to  learn  the  news  of  the  day. 

The  city  on  that  day  presented  a most  singular  aspect.  The 
streets,  filled  with  the  towns- people  and  the  soldiery,  were  deco- 
rated with  flags  and  garlands.  The  cafes  were  crowded  with 
merry  ^oups,  and  the  sound  of  music  and  laughter  resounded 
on  all  sides.  The  houses  seemed  to  be  quite  inadequate  to  afford 
accommodation  to  the  numerous  guests,  and  in  consequence 
bullock-cars  and  forage-wagons  were  converted  into  temporary 
hotels,  and  many  a jovial  party  were  collected  in  both.  Military 
music,  church  bells,  drinking  choruses,  were  ail  commingled  in 
the  din  and  turmoil;  processions  in  honor  of  our  V Lady  of  Sue- 


m 


CHARLES  CMALLET. 


cor  ” were  jammed  up  among  Bacchanalian  orgies,  and  their 
very  chant  half  drowned  in  the  cries  of  the  wounded  as  they 
passed  on  to  the  hospitals.  With  difficulty  we  pushed  our  way 
through  the  dense  mob;  as  we  turned  our  steps  toward  the  sem- 
inary we  both  felt  naturally  curious  to  see  the  place  where  our 
first  detachment  landed,  and  to  examine  the  opportunities  of 
defense  it  presented.  The  building  itself  was  a large  and  irregu- 
lar  one,  of  an  oblong  form,  surrounded  by  a high  wall  of  solid 
masonry,  the  only  entrance  being  through  a heavy  iron  gate. 

At  this  spot  the  battle  appeared  to  have  raged  wdth  violence; 
one  side  of  the  massive  gate  was  torn  from  its  hinges,  and  lay 
flat  upon  the  ground;  the  walls  were  breached  in  many  places; 
and  pieces  of  torn  uniforms,  broken  bayonets,  and  bruised 
shakos,  attested  that  the  conflict  was  a close  one.  The  seminary 
itself  was  in  a falling  state;  the  roof,  from  which  Paget  had 
given  his  orders,  and  where  he  was  wounded,  had  fallen  in. 
The  French  cannon  had  fissured  the  building  from  top  to  bottom, 
and  it  seemed  only  awaiting  the  slightest  impulse  to  crumble 
into  ruin.  When  we  regarded  the  spot,  and  examined  the 
narrow  doorway  which,  opening  upon  a flight  of  a few  steps  to 
the  river,  admitted  our  first  party,  we  could  not  help  feeling 
struck  anew  with  the  gallantry  of  that  mere  handful  of  brave 
fellows,  who  thus  threw  themselves  amid  the  overwhelming 
legions  of  the  enemy,  and  at  once,  without  waiting  for  a single 
reinforcement,  opened  a fire  upon  their  ranks.  Bold  as  the  en- 
terprise unquestionably  was,  we  still  felt  with  what  consum- 
mate judgment  it  had  been  planned;  a bend  of  the  river  con- 
cealed entirely  the  passage  of  the  troops,  the  guns  of  the  Sierra 
covered  their  landing,  and  completely  swept  one  approach  to  the 
seminary.  The  French,  being  thus  obliged  to  attack  by  the 
gate,  were  compelled  to  make  a considerable  detour  before  they 
reached  it,  all  of  which  gave  time  for  our  'divisions  to  cross, 
while  the  brigade  of  Guards,  under  General  Sherbroke,  profiting 
by  the  confusion,  pas*sed  the  river  below  the  town  and  took  the 
enemy  unexpectedly  in  rear. 

Brief  as  was  the  struggle  within  the  town,  it  must  have  been 
a terrific  one;  the  artillery  were  firing  at  musket  range;  cavalry 
and  infantry  were  fighting  hand  to  hand  in  narrow  sti’eets,  a 
destructive  musketry  pouring  all  the  while  from  windows  and 
house-tops. 

At  the  Amarante  gate,  where  the  French  defiled,  the  carnage 
was  also  great;  their  light  artillery  unlimbered  some  guns  here, 
to  cover  the  columns  as  they  deployed;  but  Murray’s  cavalry 
having  carried  these,  the  flank  of  the  infantry  became  entirely 
exposed  to  the  galling  fire  of  small-arms  from  the  seminary,  and 
the  far  more  destructive  shower  of  grape  that  pomred- unceas- 
ingly from  the  Sierra. 

Our  brigade  did  the  rest;  and  in  less  than  one  hour  from  the 
landing  of  the  first  man,  the  French  were  in  full  retreat  upon 
Vallenga. 

“A  glorious  thing,  Charley,”  said  Power,  after  a pause,  “ and 
a proud  souvenir  for  hereafter.”  , 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY, 


353 


^ A truth  I felt  deeply  at  the  time,  and  now  my  heart  responds 
to  not  less  fully  as  I am  writing. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

THE  QUAKREL. 

On  the  evening  of  the  12th,  orders  were  received  for  the  Ger- 
man brigade  and  three  squadrons  of  our  regiment  to  pursue  the 
French  upon  the  Terracinthe  road,  by  daybreak  of  the  following 
morning. 

I was  busily  occupied  in  my  preparations  for  a hurried  march, 
when  Mike  came  up  to  say  there  was  an  officer  desired  to  speak 
with  me;  and  the  moment  after  Captain  tiammersly  appeared. 
A sudden  flush  colored  his  pale  and  sickly  features,  as  he  held 
out  his  hand,  and  said: 

‘‘  Pve  come  to  wish  you  joy,  O’Malley;  I just  this  instant  heard 
of  your  promotion.  I am  sincerely  glad  of  it;  pray  tell  me  the 
whole  affair.” 

“ That  is  the  very  thing  I am  unable  to  do.  I have  some  very 
vague,  indistinct  remembrance  of  warding  off  a saber  cut  from 
the  head  of  a wounded  and  unhorsed  officer  in  the  melee  of  yes- 
terday; but  more  I know  not.  In  fact,  it  was  my  first  day  under 
fire;  I’ve  a tolerably  clear  recollection  of  all  the  events  of  the 
morning,  but  the  word  * charge  ’ once  given — I remember  very 
little  more.  But  you — where  have  you  been  ? how  have  we  not 
met  before?” 

“ I’ve  exchanged  into  a heavy  dragoon  regiment,  and  am  now 
employed  upon  the  staff.” 

“ You  are  aware  that  I have  letters  for  you?” 

‘‘Power  hinted,  I think,  something  of  the  kind;  I saw  him 
very  hurriedly.” 

These  words  were  spoken  with  an  effort  at  nonchalance  that 
evidently  cost  him  much. 

As  for  me,  my  agitation  was  scarcely  less,  as,  fumbling  for 
some  seconds  in  my  portmanteau,  I drew  forth  the  hair-fastened 
packet.  As  I placed  it  in  his  hands  he  grew/deadly  pale,  and  a 
slight  spasmodic  twitch  in  his  upper  lip  bespoke  some  unusual 
struggle.  He  broke  the  seal  suddenly,  and  as  he  did  so,  the 
morocco  case  of  a miniature  fell  upon  the  ground;  his  eyes  ran 
rapidly  across  the  letter;  the  livid  color  of  his  lips,  as  the  blood 
forsook  them,  added  to  the  corpse-like  hue  of  his  countenance. 

“You  probably  are  aware  of  the  contents  of  this  letter,  Mr. 
O’Malley  ?”  said  he,  in  an  altered  voice;  whose  tones,  half  in 
anger,  half  in  suppressed  irony,  cut  to  my  very  heart. 

“ I am  in  complete  ignorance  of  them,”  said  I,  calmly. 

“Indeed,  sir!”  replied  he,  with  a sarcastic  curl  of  his  mouth  as 
he  spoke.  “ Then,  perhaps,  you  will  tell  me,  too,  that  your  very 
success  is  a secret  to  you,” 

‘ ‘ I’m  really  unaware ” 

“You  think,  probably,  sir,  that  the  pastime  is  an  amusing 
one,  to  interfere  where  the  affections  of  others  are  concerned, 
I’ve  heard  of  you,  sir;  your  conduct  at  Lisbon  is  known  to  me; 
and  though  Captain  Trevy Ilian  may  bear ” 


254 


CHARLES  G^MALLET. 


^‘Stop,  Captain  Hammersly !”  said  I,  with  a tremendous 
effort  to  be  calm.  “ Stop!  you  have  said  enough — quite  enough 
to  convince  me  of  what  your  object  was  in  seeking  me  here  to- 
day. You  shall  not  be  disappointed.  I trust  that  assurance 
will  save  you  from  any  further  display  of  temper.” 

I thank  you — most  humbly  I thank  you  for  the  quickness  of 
your  apprehension;  and  I shall  now  take  my  leave.  Good-even- 
ing, Mr.  O’Malley.  I wish  you  much  joy — you  have  my  very 
fullest  congratulations  upon  all  your  good  fortune,” 

The  sneering  emphasis  the  last  words  were  spoken  with  re- 
mained fixed  in  my  mind  long  after  he  took  his  departure;  and, 
indeed,  so  completely  did  the  whole  seem  like  a dream  to  me, 
that  were  it  not  for  the  fragments  of  the  miniature  that  lay 
upon  the  ground,  where  he  had  crushed  them  with  his  heel,  I 
could  scarcely  credit  myself  that  I was  awake. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  seek  Power,  upon  whose  judgment  and 
discretion  I could  with  confidence  rely. 

I had  not  long  to  wait;  for  scarcely  had  I thrown  my  cloak 
around  me,  when  he  rode  up.  He  had  just  seen  Hammersly,  and 
learned  something  of  our  interview. 

“Why,  Charley,  my  dear  fellow!  what  is  this?  How  have 
you  treated  poor  Hammersly?” 

“ Treated  him!  say,  rather,  how  has  he  treated  me  ?” 

I here  entered  into  a short  but  accurate  detail  of  our  meeting; 
during  which  Power  listened  with  great  composure,  while  I 
could  perceive,  from  the  questions  he  asked,  tliat  some  very 
different  impression  had  been  previously  made  upon  bis  mind. 

“ And  this  was  all  that  passed  ?” 

“All.” 

“But  what  of  the  business  at  Lisbon?” 

“I  don’t  understand.” 

“ Why,  he  speaks — he  has  heard  some  foolish  account  of  your 
having  made  some  ridiculous  speech  there,  about  your  successful 
rivalry  of  him  in  Ireland — Lucy  Hashwood,  I suppose,  is  referred 
to.  Some  one  has  been  good-natured  enough  to  repeat  the  thing 
to  him.” 

“ But  it  never  occurred;  I never  did.” 

“Are  you  sure,  Charley?” 

“I  am  sure:  I know  I never  did.” 

“The  poor  fellow,  he  has  been  duped!  Come,  Charley,  you 
must  not  take  it  ill.  Poor  Hammersly  has  never  recovered  a sa-* 
ber  wound  he  received  some  months  since  upon  the  head;  his 
intellects  are  really  affected  by  it.  Leave  it  all  to  me;  promise 
not  to  leave  your  quarters  till  I return;  and  I’ll  put  everything 
right  again.” 

I gave  the  required  pledge,  while  Power,  springing  into  the 
saddle,  left  me  to  my  own  refiections. 

My  frame  of  mind,  as  Power  left  me,  was  by  no  means  an  en- 
viable one.  A quarrel  is  rarely  a happy  incident  in  one’s  life; 
still  less  is  it  so  when  the  difference  arises  with  one  we  are  dis- 
posed to  like  and  respect.  Such  was  Hammersly:  his  manly, 
straightforward  character  had  won  my  esteem  and  regard,  and 
it  was  with  no  common  scrutiny  I taxe;d  my  memory  to  think 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


255 


what  could  have  given  rise  to  the  impression  he  labored  under, 
of  my  having  injured  him.  His  chance  mention  of  Trevyllian 
suggested  to  me  some  suspicion  that  his  dislike  of  me,  wherefore 
arising  I knew  not,  might  have  its  share  in  the  matter;  and  in 
this  state  of  doubt  and  uncertainty  I paced  impatiently  up  and 
down,  anxiously  watching  for  Power’s  return,  in  the  hope  of  at 
length  getting  some  real  insight  into  the  difficulty. 

My  patience  was  fast  ebbing.  Power  had  been  absent  above  an 
hour,  and  no  appearance  of  him  could  I detect,  when  suddenly 
the  tramp  of  a horse  came  rapidly  up  the  hill.  I looked  out,  and 
saw  a rider  coming  forward  at  a very  fast  pace.  Before  I had 
time  for  even  a guess  as  to  who  it  was,  he  drew  up,  and  I recog- 
nized Captain  Trevyllian.  There  was  a certain  look  of  easy  im- 
pertinence and  half-smiling  satisfaction  about  his  features  I had 
never  seen  before,  as  he  touched  his  cap  in  salute,  and  said: 

“May  I have  the  honor  of  a few  words  conversation  with 
you  ?” 

I bowed  silently,  while  he  dismounted,  and  passing  his  bridle 
beneath  his  arm,  he  walked  on  beside  me. 

“ My  friend.  Captain  Hammersly,  has  commissioned  me  to 
wait  upon  you  about  this  unpleasant  affair ” 

“ I beg  pardon  for  the  interruption.  Captain  Trevyllian,  but  as 
I have  yet  to  learn  to  what  you  or  your  friend  alludes,  perhaps 
it  may  facilitate  matters  if  you  will  explicitly  state  your  mean- 
ing.” 

He  grew  crimson  on  the  cheek  as  I said  this,  while,  with  a 
voice  perfectly  unmoved,  he  continued: 

“ I am  not  sufficiently  in  my  friend’s  confidence  to  know  the 
whole  of  the  affair  in  question,  nor  have  I his  permission  to  enter 
into  any  of  it,  he  probably  presuming,  as  I certainly  did  myself, 
that  your  own  sense  of  honor  would  have  deemed  further  parley 
and  discussion  as  unnecessary  and  unr«?asonable.” 

“In  fact  then,  if  I understand,  it  is  expected  that  I should 
meet  Captain  Hammersly  for  some  reason  unknown ” 

“He  certainly  desires  a meeting  with  you,”  was  the  dry 
reply. 

“And  as  certainly  I shall  not  give  it,  before  understanding 
upon  what  grounds.” 

“And  such  I am  to  report  as  your  answer,”  said  he,  looking 
at  me  at  the  moment  with  an  expression  of  ill-repressed  triumph 
as  he  spoke. 

There  was  something  in  these  few  words,  as  well  as  in  the  tone 
in  which  they  were  spoken,  that  sunk  deeply  in  my  heart.  Was 
it  that  by  some  trick  of  diplomacy  he  was  endeavoring  to  com- 
promise my  honor  and  character  ? was  it  possible  that  my  re- 
fusal might  be  construed  into  any  other  than  the  real  cause?  I 
was  too  young,  too  inexperienced  in  the  world  to  decide  the 
question  for  myself,  and  no  time  was  allowed  me  to  seek  an- 
other’s counsel.  Vfhat  a trying  moment  was  that  for  me;  my 
temples  throbbed,  my  heart  beat  almost  audibly,  and  I stood 
afraid  to  speak;  dreading,  on  the  one  hand,  lest  my  compliance 
might  involve  me  in  an  act  to  imbitter  my  life  forever,  and  fear-^ 


256  CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 

ful  on  the  other,  that  my  refusal  might  be  reported  as  a trait  of 
cowardice. 

He  saw,  he  read  my  difficulty  at  a glance,  and,  with  a smile 
of  most  supercilious  expression,  repeated  coolly  his  former  ques- 
tion. In  an  instant  all  thought  of  Hammersly  was  forgotten. 
I remembered  no  more.  I saw  him  before  me  ; him,  who  had, 
since  my  first  meeting,  continually  contrived  to  pass  some  inap- 
preciable slight  upon  me.  My  eyes  fiashed,  my  hands  tingled 
with  ill-repressed  rage,  as  I said  : 

‘‘With  Captain  Hammersly  I am  conscious  of  no  quarrel, 
nor  have  I ever  shown,  by  any  act  or  look,  an  intention  to  pro- 
voke one.  Indeed,  such  demonstrations  are  not  always  success- 
ful ; there  are  persons  most  rigidly  scrupulous  for  a friend’s 
honor,  little  disposed  to  guard  their  own.” 

“You  mistake,”  said  he,  interrupting  me,  as  I spoke  these 
words  with  a look  as  insulting  as  I could  make  it ; “you  mistake. 
I have  sworn  a solemn  oath  never  to  send  a challenge.” 

The  emphasis  upon  the  word  “ send,”  explained  fully  his  mean- 
ing, when  I said  : 

‘ ‘ But  you  will  not  decline ” 

“Most  certainly  not,”  said  he,  again  interrupting,  while  with 
sparkling  eye  and  elated  look  he  drew  himself  up  to  his  full 
height.  “ Your  friend  is ” 

“Captain  Power  : and  yours ” 

“Sir  Harry  Beaufort.  I may  observe,  that,  as  the  troops  are 
in  marching  order,  the  matter  had  better  not  be  delayed.” 

“There  shall  be  none  on  my  part.” 

“Nor  mine,”  said  he,  as  with  a low  bow,  and  a look  of  most 
ineffable  triumph,  he  sprang  into  his  saddle;  “then  au  revoi.r 
Mr.  O’Malley,”  said  he,  gathering  up  his  reins  ; “ Beaufort  is  on 
the  staff,  and  quartered  at  Oporto  so  saying,  he  cantered  easily 
down  the  slope,  and  once  more  I was  alone. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THE  ROUTE. 

I WAS  leisurely  examining  my  pistols — poor  Considine’s  last 
present  to  me  on  leaving  home — when  an  orderly  sergeant  rode 
rapidly  up,  and  delivered  into  my  hands  the  following  order: 

“Lieutenant  O’Malley  will  hold  himself  in  immediate  readi- 
ness to  proceed  upon  a particular  service.  By  order  of  his  Ex- 
cellency the  Commander  of  the  Forces, 

“ [Signed,]  S.  Gordon, 

“ Military  Sec.” 

“ What  can  this  mean  ?”  thought  I.  “It  is  not  possible  that 
any  rumor  of  my  intended  meeting  could  have  got  abroad, 
and  that  m}^  present  destination  could  be  intended  as  a punish- 
ment ?” 

I walked  hurriedly  to  the  door  of  the  little  hut  which  formed 
my  quarters;  below  me,  in  the  plain,  all  was  activity  and 
preparation;  the  infantry  was  drawn  up  in  marching  order; 
t>aggage-wagons,  ordnance  stores,  and  artillery  seemed  all  in 


CllARLES  aMALLEY. 


m 


active  preparation,  and  some  cavalry  squadrons  might  be  already 
seen,  with  forage  allowances  behind  the  saddle,  as  if  only  wait- 
ing the  order  to  set  out.  I strained  my  eyes  to  see  if  Power  was 
coming,  but  no  horseman  approached  in  the  direction.  I stood, 
and  I hesitated  whether  I should  not  rather  seek  him  at  once, 
than  continue  to  wait  on  in  my  present  uncertainty;  but  then, 
what  if  I should  miss  him?  and  I had  pledged  myself  to  remain  i 
till  he  returned. 

While  I deliberated  thus  with  myself,  weighing  the  various  | 
chances  for  and  against  each  plan,  I saw  two  mounted  officers 
coming  toward  me  at  a brisk  trot.  As  they  came  nearer,  I 
recognized  one  as  my  Colonel;  the  other  was  an  officer  of  the 
staff. 

Supposing  that  their  mission  had  some  relation  to  the  order  I 
had  so  lately  received,  and  which,  until  now,  I had  forgotten, 

I hastily  returned,  and  ordered  Mike  to  my  presence. 

“ How  are  the  horses,  Mike  ?”  said  I. 

‘‘  Never  better,  sir.  Badger  was  wounded  slightly  by  a spent 
shot  in  the  counter,  but  he’s  never  the  worse  this  morning,  and 
the  black  horse  is  capering  like  a filly.” 

“Get  ready  my  pack,  feed  the  cattle,  and  be  prepared  to  set 
out  at  a moment's  warning.” 

“Good  advice,  O’Malley,”  said  the  Colonel,  as  he  overheard 
the  last  direction  to  my  servant.  “ I hope  the  nags  are  in 
condition.” 

“ Why,  yes,  sir,  I believe  they  are.” 

“ All  the  better;  you’ve  a sharp  ride  before  you.  Meanwhile, 
let  me  introduce  my  friend;  Captain  Beaumont,  Mr.  O’Malley. 

I think  we  had  better  be  seated.” 

“These  are  your  instructions,  Mr.  O’Malley,”  said  Captain 
Beaumont, unfolding  a map  as  he  spoke.  “ You  will  proceed  from 
this,  with  half  a troop  of  your  regiment,  by  forced  marches, 
toward  the  frontier^  passing  through  the  town  of  Calenco 
and  Guarda,  and  the  Estrella  pass.  On  arriving  at  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Lusitanian  Legion,  which  you  will  find  there, 
you  are  to  put  yourself  under  "the  orders  of  Major-General  Mon- 
soon, commanding  that  force.  Any  Portuguese  cavalry  he  may 
have  with  him  will  be  attached  to  yours,  and  under  your  com- 
mand; your  rank,  for  the  time,  being  that  of  Captain.  You 
will,  as  far  as  possible,  acquaint  yourself  with  th.e  habits  and 
capabilities  of  the  native  cavalry,  and  make  such  reports  as  you 
judge  necessary  thereupon  to  his  Excellency  the  Commander  of 
the  forces.  I think  it  only  fair  to  add,  that  you  are  indebted  to 
my  friend.  Colonel  Merivale,  for  the  very  flattering  position  thus 
opened  to  your  skill  and  enterprise.” 

“My  dear  Colonel,  let  me  assure  you ” 

“ Not  a word,  my  boy.  I knew  the  thing  would  suit  you,  and 
I am  sure  I can  count  upon  your  not  disappointing  my  expecta^ 
tions  of  you.  Sir  Arthur  perfectly  remembers  your  name; 
he  only  asked  two  questions; 

“ ‘Is  he  well  mounted?’ 

“ ‘ Admirably,’  was  my  answer. 

“ ‘ Can  you  depend  upon  his  prompitude  ? 


m 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY, 


■'  ‘ He’ll  leave  in  half  an  hour.’ 

So  you  see,  O’Malley,  I have  already  pledged  myself  for  you; 
and  now,  I must  say  adieu;  the  regiments  are  about  to  take  up 
a more  advanced  position;  so  good-bye.  I hope  you  will  have  a 
pleasant  time  of  it  till  we  meet  again.’’ 

‘*It  is  now  twelve  o’clock,  Mr.  O’Malley,'’  said  Beaumont; 

we  may  rely  upon  your  immediate  departure.  Your  written 
instructions  and  dispatches  will  be  here  within  a quarter  of  an 
hour.” 

I muttered  something — what,  I cannot  remember;  I bowed  my 
thanks  to  my  worthy  Colonel,  shook  his  hand  warmly,  and  saw 
him  ride  down  the  hill,  and  disappear  in  the  crowd  of  soldiery 
beneath,  before  I could  recall  my  faculties  and  think  over  my 
situation. 

Then,  all  at  once,  did  the  difficulty  of  my  position  break  sud- 
denly upon  me.  If  I accepted  my  present  employment,  I must 
certainly  fail  in  my  engagement  to  Trevyllian;  but  I had  already 
pledged  myself  to  its  acceptance.  What  was  to  be  done?  No 
rime  was  left  for  deliberation.  The  very  minutes  I should  have 
spent  in  preparation  were  fast  passing.  Would  that  Power  might 
appear.  Alas!  he  came  not.  My  state  of  doubt  and  uncertainty 
increased  every  moment.  I saw  nothing  but  ruin  before  me, 
even  at  a moment  when  fortune  promised  most  fairly  for  the 
future,  and  opened  a field  of  enterprise  my  heart  so  often  and  so 
ardently  desired.  Nothing  was  left  me  but  to  hasten  to  Colonel 
Merivale  and  decline  my  appointment;  to  do  so  was  to  prejudice 
my  character  in  his  estimation  forever;  for  I dare  not  allege  my 
reasons,  and,  in  all  probability,  my  conduct  might  require  my 
leaving  the  army. 

“ Be  it  so,  then,”  said  I,  in  an  accent  of  despair;  “the  die  is 
cast.” 

I ordered  my  horse  round.  I wrote  a few  words  to  Power,  to 
explain  my  absence,  should  he  come  wliile  I was  away,  and 
leaped  into  my  saddle.  As  I reached  the  plain  my  pace  became 
a gallop,  and  I pressed  my  horse  with  ail  the  impatience  my 
heart  was  burning  with.  I dashed  along  the  lines  toward  Oporto, 
neither  hearing  nor  seeing  aught  around  me,  when  suddenly  the 
clank  of  cavalry  accouterments  behind  induced  me  to  turn  my 
head,  and  I perceived  an  orderly  dragoon  at  full  gallop,  in 
pursuit.  I pulled  up  till  he  came  alongside. 

“Lieutenant  O’Malley,  sir,”  said  the  man,  saluting,  “these 
dispatches  are  for  you.” 

I took  them  hurriedly,  and  was  about  to  continue  my  route, 
when  the  attitude  of  the  dragoon  arrested  my  attention.  He 
had  reined  in  his  horse  to  the  side  of  the  narrow  causeway,  and, 
holding  him  still  and  steadily,  sat  motionless  as  a statue.  I 
looked  behind,  and  saw  the  whole  staff  approaching  at  a brisk 
trot.  Before  I had  a moment  for  thought  tliey  were  beside  me. 

“Ah!  O’Malley,”  cried  Merivale,  “ you  have  your  orders;  don’t 
wait;  his  Excellency  is  coming  up.” 

“Get  along,  I advise  you,”  said  another,  “or  you’ll  catch  it, 
as  some  of  us  have  done  this  morning.” 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY.  259 

“All  is  right,  Charley;  you  can  go  in  safety,”  said  a whisper- 
ing voice,  as  Power  passed  in  a sharp  canter. 

That  one  sentence  was  enough:  my  heart  bounded  like  a deer, 
my  cheek  beamed  with  the  glow  of  delighted  pleasure,  I closed 
my  spur  upon  my  gallant  gray  and  dashed  across  the  plain. 

When  I arrived  at  my  quarters  the  men  were  drawn  up  in 
waiting,  and  provided  with  rations  for  three  days’  march;  Mike 
was  also  prepared  for  the  road,  and  nothing  more  remained  to 
delay  me. 

“ Captain  Power  has  been  here,  sir,  and  left  a note.” 

I took  it  and  thrust  it  hastily  into  my  sabertasch  I knew 
enough  from  the  few  words  he  had  spoken  that  my  present  step 
involved  me  in  no  ill  consequences;  so,  giving  the  word  to  wheel 
into  column,  I rode  to  the  front  and  set  out  upon  my  march  to 
Alcantara. 


CHAPTER  L. 

THE  WATCH-FIRE. 

There  are  few  things  so  inspiriting  to  a young  soldier  as  the 
being  employed  with  a separate  command;  the  picket  and  out- 
post duty  hav('.  a charm  for  him  no  other  portion  of  his  career 
possesses.  The  field  seems  open  for  individual  boldness  and 
heroism;  success,  if  obtained,  must  redound  to  his  own  credit. 
And  wdiat  can  equal,  in  his  spirit-stirring  enthusiasm,  that 
first  moment  when  we  become  in  any  way  the  arbiter  of  our 
fortunes. 

Such  were  my  happy  thoughts,  as.  with  a proud  and  elated 
heart,  I set  forth  upon  my  march.  The  notice  the  Commander- 
in-Chief  had  bestowed  upon  me  had  already  done  much;  it  had 
raised  me  in  my  own  estimation,  and  implanted  within  me  a 
longing  desire  for  further  distinction.  I thought,  too,  of  those 
far — far  away,  who  were  yet  to  hear  of  my  successes. 

I fancied  to  myself  how  they  would  severally  receive  the 
1 news.  My  poor  uncle,  with  tearful  eye  and  quivering  lip,  was 
' before  me,  as  I saw  him  read  the  dispatch,  then  wipe  his 
glasses,  and  read  on,  till  at  last,  with  one  long-drawn  breath, 
his  manly  voice,  tremulous  with  emotion,  w’ould  break  forth — 
“My  boy!  my  owm  Charley!”  Then  I pictured  Considine,  with 
port  erect  and  stern  features,  listening  silently;  not  a syllable — 
not  a motion  betraying  that  he  felt  interested  in  my  fate;  till,  as 
if  impatient  at  length,  he  would  break  in — “ I knew  it — I said 
so;  and  yet  you  thought  to  make  him  a lawyer!”  And  then  old 
Sir  Harry;  his  warm  heart  glowing  with  pleasure,  and  his  good- 
humored  face  beaming  with  happiness.  How  many  a blunder  he 
would  make  in  retailing  the  news,  and  how  many  a hearty  laugh 
Jais  version  of  it  would  give  rise  to. 

I passed  in  review  before  me  the  old  servants,  as  they  lingered 
in  the  room  to  hear  the  story.  Poor  old  Matthew,  the  butler, 
fumbling  with  his  corkscrew  to  gain  a little  time;  then  looking 
in  my  uncle’s  face,  half  entreatingly,  as  he  asked:  “Any  news 
of  Master  Charles,  sir,  from  the  wars  ?” 

While  thus  my  mind  wandered  back  to  the  scenes  and  faces  of 


m 


CHARLES  a M ALLEY. 


my  early  home,  I feared  to  ask  myself  how  she  would  feel  to 
whom  my  heart  was  now  turning?  Too  deeply  did  I know  how 

Foor  my  chances  were  in  that  quarter  to  nourish  hope,  and  yet 
could  not  bring  myself  to  abandon  it  altogether.  Hammersly’s 
strange  conduct  suggested  to  me,  that  he,  at  least,  could  not  be 
my  rival,  while  I plainly  perceived  that  he  regarded  me  as  his. 
There  was  a mystery  in  all  this  I could  not  fathom,  and  I ardent- 
ly longed  for  my  next  meeting  with  Power,  to  learn  the  nature 
of  his  interview,  and  also  in  what  manner  the  affair  had  been  ar- 
ranged. 

Such  were  my  passing  thoughts  as  I pressed  forward.  My 
men,  picked  no  less  for  themselves  than  [their  horses,  came  rapid- 
ly along;  and  ere  evening,  we  had  accomplished  twelve  leagues 
of  our  journey. 

The  country  through  which  we  journeyed,  though  wild  and 
romantic  in  its  character,  was  singularly  rich  and  fertile — culti- 
vation reaching  to  the  very  summits  of  the  rugged  mountains, 
and  patches  of  wheat  and  Indian  corn  peeping  amid  masses  of 
granite  rock  and  tangled  brushwood;  the  vine  and  the  olive  grew 
wild  on  every  side;  while  the  orange  and  the  arbutus,  loading 
the  air  with  perfume,  were  mingled  with  prickly  pear  trees  and 
variegated  hollies.  We  followed  no  regular  track,  but  cantered 
along  over  hill  and  valley — through  forest  and  prairie;  now  in 
the  long  file  through  some  tall  field  of  waving  corn,  now  in  open 
order  upon  some  level  plain;  our  Portuguese  guide  riding  a little 
in  advance  of  us,  upon  a jet-black  mule,  caroling  merrily  some 
wild  Gallician  melody  as  he  went. 

As  the  sun  was  setting,  we  arrived  beside  a little  stream,  that, 
flowing  along  a rocky  bed,  skirted  a vast  forest  of  tall  cork 
trees.  Here  we  called  a halt;  and,  picketing  our  horses,  pro- 
ceeded to  make  our  arrangements  for  a bivouac. 

Never  do  I remember  a more  lovely  night;  the  watch-fires 
sent  up  a delicious  odor  from  the  perfumed  shrubs;  while  the 
glassy  water  reflected  on  its  still  surface  the  starry  sky,  that, 
unshadowed  and  unclouded,  stretched  above  us.  I wrapped 
myself  in  my  trooper’s  mantle,  and  lay  down  beneath  a tree — buf 
not  to  sleep;  there  was  a something  so  excit  ing,  and  withal  so 
tranquilizing,  that  I had  no  thought  of  slumber,  but  fell  into  a 
musing  reverie.  There  was  a character  of  adventure  in  my 
position  that  charmed  me  much.  My  men  were  gathered  in 
little  groups  beside  the  fires;  some  sunk  in  slumber,  others  sat 
smoking  silently,  or  chatting,  in  a low  under-tone,  of  some 
by-gone  scene  of  battle  or  bivouac;  here  and  there  were  picketed 
the  horses;  the  heavy  panoply  and  piled  carbines  flickering  in 
the  red  glare  of  the  watch-fires,  which  ever  and  anon  threw  a 
flitting  glow  upon  the  swarthy  faces  of  my  bold  troopers.  Upon 
the  trees  around,  sabers  and  ‘helmets,  holsters  and  cross-belts 
were  hung  like  armorial  bearings  in  some  antique  hall,  the  dark 
foliage  spreading  its  heavy  shadow  around  us.  Further  off, 
upon  a little  rocky  ledge,  the  erect  figure  of  the  sentry,  with  his 
short  carbine  resting  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  was  seen  slowly 

Eacing  in  measured  tread,  or  standing  for  a moment  silently,  as 
e looked  upon  the  fair  and  tranquil  sky— his  thoughts  doubt- 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY.  261 

less  far — far  away,  beyond  the  sea,  to  some  humble  home 
where— 

“ The  hum  of  the  spreading  sycamore, 

That  grew  beside  his  cottage  door,” 

was  again  in  his  ears,  while  th«  merry  laugh  of  his  children 
stirred  his  bold  heart.  It  was  a Salvator  Rosa  scene,  and  brought 
me  back  in  fancy  to  the  bandit  legends  I had  read  in  boyhood; 
by  the  uncertain  light  of  the  wood  embers  I endeavored  to 
sketch  the  group  that  lay  before  me. 

The  night  wore  on.  One  by  one  the  soldiers  stretched  them- 
selves to  sleep,  and  all  was  still.  As  the  hours  rolled  by,  a 
drowsy  feeling  crept  gradually  over  me;  I placed  my  pistol  by 
my  side,  and  having  replenished  the  fire  by  some  fresh  logs, 
disposed  myself  comfortably  before  it. 

It  was  during  that  half-dreamy  state  that  intervenes  between 
waking  and  sleeping,  that  a rustling  sound  of  the  branches 
behind  attracted  my  attention.  The  air  was  too  calm  to  attrib- 
ute this  to  the  wind,  so  1 listened  for  some  minutes;  but  sleep, 
too  long  deferred,  was  overpowerful,  acd  my  head  sunk  upon 
my  grassy  pillow,  and  I was  soon  sound  asleep.  How  long  I 
remained  so  I know  not;  but  I awoke  suddenly,  I fancied  some 
one  had  shaken  me  rudely  by  the  shoulder;  but  yet  all  was 
tranquil;  my  men  were  sleeping  soundly  as  I saw  them  last:  the 
fires  were  becoming  low,  and  a gray  streak  in  the  sky,  as  well 
as  a sharp  cold  feeling  of  the  air,  betokened  the  approach  of  day. 
Once  more  I heaped  some  dry  branches  together,  and  was 
about  again  to  stretch  myself  to  rest,  when  I felt  a liand  upon 
my  shoulder.  I turned  quickly  round,  and,  in  the  imperfect 
light  of  the  fire,  saw  the  figure  of  a man  standing  motionless 
beside  me;  his  head  was  bare,  and  his  hair  fell  in  long  curls 
upon  his  shoulders;  one  hand  was  pressed  upon  his  bosom,  and 
with  the  other  he  motioned  me  to  silence.  My  first  impression 
was  that  our  party  was  surprised  by  some  French  patrol;  but  as 
I looked  again,  I recognized,  to  my  amazement,  that  the  indi- 
vidual before  me  was  the  young  French  ofiicer  I had  seen  that 
mormng,  a prisoner  beside  the  Douro. 

“ How  came  you  here  ?’  said  I,  in  a low  tone  of  voice  to  him, 
in  French. 

“ Escaped;  one  of  my  own  men  threw  himself  between  me 
and  the  sentry;  I swam  the  Douro,  re<?eived  a musket-ball 
through  my  arm,  lost  my  shako — and  here  I am.” 

“ You  are  aware  you  are  again  a prisoner  ?” 

“ If  you  desire  it,  of  course  I am,”  said  he,  in  a voice  full  of 
feeling  that  made  my  very  heart  creep.  ‘‘  I thought  you  were 
a party  of  Lorge’s  Dragoons,  scouring  the  country  for  forage; 
tracked  you  the  entire  day,  and  have  only  now  come  up  with 
you. 

The  poor  fellow,  who  had  neither  eaten  nor  drank  since 
daybreak,  wounded  and  foot-sore,  had  accomplished  twelve 
leagues  of  a march,  only  once  more  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  his 
enemies.  His  years  could  scarcely  liave  numbered  nineteen;  his 
countenance  was  singularly  prepossessing;  and  though  bleeding 
find  torn,  with  tattered  uniform,  and  without  a covering  to  hif^ 


262 


CHARLES  a MALLET. 


head,  there  was  no  mistaking  for  a moment  that  he  was  of  gen- 
tle blood.  Noiselessly  and  cautiously  I made  him  sit  down  be- 
side the  fire,  while  I spread  before  him  the  sparing  remnant  of 
my  last  night’s  supper,  and  shared  my  solitary  bottle  of  sherry. 

From  the  moment  he  spoke,  I never  entertained  a thought  of 
making  him  a prisoner ; but,  as  I knew  not  how  far  I was  cul- 
pable in  permitting,  if  not  actually  facilitating,  his  escape,  I re- 
solved to  keep  the  circumstance  a secret  from  my  party,  and,  if 
possible,  get  him  away  before  daybreak. 

No  sooner  did  he  learn  my  intentions  regarding  him,  than  in 
an  instant  all  memory  of  his  past  misfortunes. — all  thoughts  of 
his  present  destitute  condition  seemed  to  have  fied;  and  while  I 
dressed  his  wound  and  bound  up  his  shattered  arm,  he  chatted 
away  as  unconcernedly  about  the  past  and  the  future  as  though 
seated  beside  the  fire  of  his  own  bivouac,  and  surrounded  by  his 
own  brother  officers. 

“You  took  us  by  surprise  the  other  day,”  said  he.  “Our 
marshal  expected  the  attack  from  the  mouth  of  the  river;  we 
received  information  that  your  ships  were  expected  there.  In 
any  case,  our  retreat  was  an  orderly  Gtie,  and  must  have  been 
effected  with  slight  loss.” 

I smiled  at  the  self-complacency  of  this  reasoning,  but  did 
not  contradict  him. 

“Your  loss  must  indeed  have  been  great;  your  men  crossed 
under  the  fire  of  a whole  battery.” 

“ Not  exactly,”  said  I;  “ our  first  party  were  quietly  stationed 
in  Oporto  before  you  knew  anything  about  it.” 

“ Ah!  sacre  Dieit ! Treachery!”  cried  he,  striking  his  forehead 
with  his  clinched  fist. 

“Not  so;  mere  daring — nothing  more.  But  come,  tell  me 
something  of  your  own  adventures.  How  were  you  taken?” 

“ Simply  thus:  I was  sent  to  the  rear,  with  orders  to  the  ar- 
tillery to  cut  their  traces,  and  leave  the  guns;  and  when  coming 
back  rny  horse  grew  tired  in  the  heavy  ground,  and  I jvas  spur- 
ring him  to  the  utmost,  when  one  of  your  heavy  dragoons,  an 
officer,  too,  dashed  at  me,  and  actually  rode  me  down,  horse  and 
all.  I lay  for  some  time  bruised  by  the  fall,  when  an  infantry 
soldier  passing  by,  seized  me  by  the  collar,  and  brought  me  to 
the  rear.  No  matter,  however,  here  I am  now.  You  will  not 
give  me  up;  and  perhaps  I may  one  day  live  to  repay  the  kind- 
ness.” 

“You  have  not  long  joined.” 

“It  was  my  first  battle;  my  epaulets  w^ere  very  smart  things 
yesterday,  though  they  do  look  a little  passe  to-day.  You  are 
advancing,  I suppose.” 

I smiled,  without  answering  this  question. 

“ Ah,  I see  you  don’t  wish  to  speak;  never  mind,  your  discre- 
tion is  thrown  away  upon  me,  for  if  I rejoined  my  regiment  to- 
morrow, I should  have  forgotten  all  you  told  me — all  but  your 
great  kindness;”  these  last  wwds  bespoke,  bo  wdng  slightly  his 
head,  and  coloring  as  he  said  them. 

“You  are  a dragoon,  I think,”  said  I,  endeavoring  to  change 
the  topic. 


CHARLES  a MALLET.  26S 


‘‘  I was,  ten  days  ago,  chasseur  aucheval.  a sous-lieutonant  in 
the  regiment  of  my  father,  the  General  St.  Croix. 

“ The  name  is  familiar  to  me,'’  I replied,  “ and  I am  sincerely 
happy  to  be  in  a position  to  serve  the  son  of  so  distinguished  an 
officer.” 

“ The  son  of  so  distinguished  an  officer  is  most  deeply  obliged, 
but  wishes  with  all  his  heart  and  soul  he  had  never  sought 
glory  under  such  very  excellent  auspices. 

“You  look  surprised,  mon  cher,  but  let  me  tell  you  my  mili- 
tary ardor  is  considerably  abated  in  the  last  three  days;  hunger, 
thirst,  imprisonment,  and  this,”  lifting  his  wounded  limb  as  he 
spoke,  “ are  sharp  lessons  in  so  short  a campaign,  and  for  one, 
two,  whose  life  hitherto  had  much  more  of  ease  than  adventure 
to  boast  of.  Shall  I tell  you  how  I became  a soldier?” 

“ By  all  means;  give  me  your  glass  first;  and  now  for  a fresh 
log  to  the  fire;  I'm  your  man.” 

“ But  stay,  before  I begin,  look  at  this.” 

The  blood  was  welling  rapidly  from  his  wound,  which,  with 
some  difficulty,  I succeeded  in  stanching.  He  drank  off  his  wine 
hastily,  held  out  his  glass  to  be  refilled,  and  then  began  his 
story. 

“You  have  never  seen  the  Emperor  ?” 


“ Never.” 

^^Sacrebleu!  What  a man  he  is!  I’d  rather  stand  under  the 
fire  of  your  grenadiers  than  meet  his  eye.  When  in  a passion,  he 
does  not  say  much,  it  is  true;  but  what  he  does,  comes  with  a 
kind  of  hissing,  rushing  sound,  while  the  very  fire  seems  to  kin- 
dle in  his  look.  I have  him  before  me  this  instant,  and  though 
you  will  confess  that  my  present  condition  has  nothing  very 
pleasing  in  it,  I should  be  sorry  indeed  to  change  it  for  tthe  last 
time  I stood  in  his  presence. 

“ Two  months  ago  I sported  the  gay  light  blue  and  silver  of  a 
page  to  the  Emperor;  and  certainly,  what  with  balls,  bon  bons, 
flirtation,  gossip,  and  champagne  suppers,  led  a very  gay,  reck- 
less, and  indolent  life  of  it.  Somehow — I may  tell  you  more 
accurate  at  another  period,  if  we  ever  meet — I got  myself  into  dis- 
grace, and,  as  a punishment,  was  ordered  to  absent  myself  from 
the  Tuilleries,  and  retire,  for  some  weeks,  to  Fontainbleau.  Si-  ■ 
beria  to  a Russian  would  scarcely  be  a heavier  infliction  than  V 
was  this  banishment  to  me.  There  was  no  court,  no  levee,  no* 
military  parade,  no  ball,  no  opera.  A small  household  of  the 
Emperor’s  chosen  servants  quietly  kept  house  there.  The  gloomy 
walls  re-echoed  to  no  music;  the  dark  alleys  of  the  dreary  gar- 
den seemed  the  very  impersonation  of  solitude  and  decay. 
Nothing  broke  the  dull  monotony  of  the  tiresome  day,  except 
when  occasionally  near  sunset  the  clash  of  the  guard  would  be 
heard  turning  out,  and  the  clash  of  presenting  arms,  followed 
by  the  roll  of  a heavy  carriage  into  the  gloomy  court-yard.  One 
lamp  shining  like  a star,  in  a small  chamber  on  the  second  floor, 
would  remain  till  near  four,  sometimes  five  o’clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  same  sounds  of  the  guard,  and  the  same  dull  roll  of  the 
carriage,  would  break  the  stillness  of  the  early  morning;  and  the 
Emperor,  for  it  he,  would  be  back  on  his  road  to  Paris, 


264 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


‘‘We  never  saw  him.  I say  we,  for  like  myself,  some  half- 
dozen  others  were  also  there,  expiating  their  follies  by  a life  of 
cheerless  cnmn, 

“ It  was  upon  a calm  evening  in  April,  we  sat  together  chatting 
over  the  various  misdeeds  which  had  consigned  us  to  exile,  when 
some  one  proposed,  by  way  of  passing  the  time,  that  we  should 
visit  the  small  flower-garden  that  was  parted  off  from  the  rest, 
and  reserved  for  the  Emperor  alone.  It  was  already  beyond  the 
hour  he  usually  came,  besides  that,  even  should  he  arrive,  there 
was  abundant  time  to  get  back  before  he  could  possibly  reach  it. 
The  garden  we  had  often  seen,  but  there  was  something  in  the 
fact  that  our  going  there  was  a transgression,  that  so  pleased  us 
all,  we  agreed  at  once  and  set  forth.  For  above  an  hour  we  loi- 
tered about  the  lonely  and  deserted  walks,  where  alread}'  the 
Emperor’s  foot-tracks  had  worn  a marked  pathway,  when  we 
grew  weary,  and  were  about  to  return,  just  as  one  of  the  party 
suggested,  half  in  ridicule  of  the  sanctity  of  the  spot,  that  we 
should  have  a game  of  leap-frog  ere  we  left  it.  The  idea  pleased 
us,  and  was  at  once  adopted.  Our  plan  was  this:  each  person 
stationed  himself  in  some  by-walk  or  alley,  and  waited  till  the 
other,  whose  turn  it  was,  came  and  leaped  over  him;  so  that, 
besides  the  activity  displayed,  there  was  a knowledge  of  the  locale 
necessary,  for  to  any  one  passed  over,  a forfeit  was  to  be  paid. 
Our  game  began  at  once,  and  certainly  I doubt  if  ever  those 
green  alleys  and  shady  groves  rang  to  such  hearty  laughter. 
Here  would  be  seen  a couple  rolling  over  together  on  the  grass; 
there,  some  luckless  wight  counting  out  his  pocket-money  as  a 
penalty.  The  hours  passed  quickly  over,  and  the  moon  rose,  and 
at  last  it  came  to  my  turn  to  make  my  tour  of  the  garden.  As  I 
was  supposed  to  know  all  its  intricacies  better  than  the  rest,  a 
longer  time  was  given  them  to  conceal  themselves;  at  length 
the  word  was  given,  and  I started. 

“ Anxious  to  acquit  myself  well,  I hurried  along  at  top  speed, 
but  guess  my  surprise  to  discover  that  nowhere  could  I find  one  of 
my  companions;  down  one  walk  I scampered,  up  another,  across 
a third,  but  all  was  still  and  silent;  not  a sound,  not  a breath, 
could  I detect.  There  was  still  one  part  of  the  garden  unex- 
plored; it  was  a small  open  space  before  a little  pond,  which 
usually  contained  the  goldfish  the  Emperor  was  so  fond  of; 
thither  I bent  my  steps,  and  had  not  gone  far,  when  in  the  pale 
moonlight  I saw  at  length  one  of  my  companions  waiting 
patiently  for  my  coming;  his  head  bent  forward,  his  shoulders 
rounded.  Anxious  to  repay  him  for  my  own  disappointment,  I 
crept  silently  forward  on  tiptoe  till  quite  near,  when,  rushing 
madly  on,  I sprung  upon  his  back;  just,  however,  as  I rose  to 
leap  over,  he  raised  his  head,  and,  staggered  by  the  impulse  of 
my  spring,  he  was  thrown  forward  and  after  an  ineffectual 
effort  to  keep  his  legs,  fell  flat  on  his  face  in  the  grass.  Bursting 
with  laughter,  I fell  over  him  on  the  ground,  and  was  turning 
to  assist  him,  when  suddenly  he  sprang  upon  his  feet,  and  horror 
of  horrors,  it  was  ISfapoleon  himself;  his  usually  pale  features 
were  purple  with  rage;  but  not  a word,  not  a syllable  escaped 
him. 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


265 


**  ‘ Qui  etes  vous  f said  he  at  length. 

“ ^ Sfc.  Croix,  sire,’  said  I,  still  kneeling  before  him,  while  my 
very  heart  leaped  into  my  mouth. 

“ ‘St.  Croix,  toujours,  St.  Croix.  Come  here;  approach  me,’ 
cried  he,  in  a voice  of  stifled  passion. 

“ I rose,  but  before  I could  make  a step  forward,  he  sprang  at 
me,  and  tearing  off  my  epaulets,  trampled  them  beneath  his 
feet,  and  then  he  shouted  out,  rather  than  spoke,  the  one  word 
‘ allezo'^ 

“ I did  not  wait  for  a second  intimation,  but  clearing  the 
paling  at  a spring,  was  many  a mile  from  Fontainbleau  before 
daybreak.” 


CHAPTEE  LI. 

THE  MARCH. 

Twice  the  reveille  sounded;  the  horses  champed  impatiently 
their  heavy  bits;  my  men  stood  waiting  for  the  order  to  mount, 
ere  I could  arouse  myself  from  the  deep  sleep  I had  fallen  into. 
The  young  Frenchman  and  his  story  were  in  my  dreams,  and 
when  I awoke,  his  figure,  as  he  lay  sleeping  beside  the  wood  em- 
bers, was  the  first  object  I perceived.  There  he  lay,  to  all  seem- 
ing, as  forgetful  of  his  fate  as  though  he  still  inhabited  the  gor- 
geous halls  and  gilded  saloons  of  the  Tuilleries;  his  pale  and 
handsome  features  wore  even  a placid  smile,  as,  doubtless,  some 
dream  of  other  days  flitted  across  him;  his  long  hair  waved  in 
luxurious  curls  upon  his  neck,  and  his  light  brown  mustache, 
slightly  curled  at  the  top,  gave  to  his  mild  and  youthful  features 
an  air  of  saucy  flerte  that  heightened  their  effect.  A narrow 
blue  ribbon,  which  he  wore  round  his  throat,  gently  peeped  from 
his  open  bosom.  I could  not  resist  the  curiosity  I felt  to  see 
what  it  meant,  and  drawing  it  softly  forth,  I perceived  that  a 
small  miniature  was  attached  to  it.  It  was  beautifully  painted, 
and  surrounded  with  brilliants  of  some  value.  One  glance 
showed  me — for  I had  seen  more  than  one  engraving  before  of  her 
— that  it  was  a portrait  of  the  Empress  Josephine.  Poor  boy!  he 
doul)tless  was  a favorite  at  the  court;  indeed,  everything  in  his 
air  and  manner  bespoke  him  such.  I gently  replaced  the 
precious  locket,  and  turned  from  the  spot,  to  think  over  what 
was  best  to  be  done  for  him.  Knowing  the  vindictive  feel- 
ing of  the  Portuguese  to  ward  their  invaders,  I feared  to  take 
Pietro,  our  guide,  into  my  confidence.  I accordingly  summoned 
my  man  Mike  to  my  aid,  who,  with  all  his  country’s  readiness, 
soon  found  out  an  expedient,  It  was  to  pretend  to  Pietro  that 
the  prisoner  was  merely  an  English^  officer  who  had  made  his 
escape  from  the  French  army,  in  which,  against  his  will,  he  had 
been  serving  for  some  time. 

The  plan  succeeded  perfectly;  and  when  St.  Croix,  mounted 
upon  one  of  my  led  horses,  set  out  upon  his  march  beside  me. 
none  was  more  profuse  of  his  attentions  than  the  dark  browed 
guide,  whose  hatred  of  a Frenchman  was  beyond  belief. 

By  thus  giving  him  safe  conduct  through  Portugal,  I knew 
that  when  we  reached  the  frontier  he  could  easily  manage  to 


266 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


come  up  with  some  part  of  Marshal  Victor's  force,  the  advanced 
guard  of  which  lay  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Tagus. 

To  me  the  companionship  was  the  greatest  boon;  the  gay  and 
buoyant  spirit  that  no  reverse  of  fortune,  no  untoward  event, 
could  subdue,  lightened  many  an  hour  of  the  journey;  and 
though,  at  times,  the  gasconade  tone  of  the  Frenchman  would 
peep  through,  there  was  still  such  a fund  of  good  tempered  rail- 
lery in  all  he  said,  that  it  was  impossible  to  feel  angry  with  him. 
His  implicit  faith  in  the  Emperor’s  invincibility  also  amused  me. 
Of  the  unbounded  confidence  of  the  nation  in  general,  and  the 
army  particularly,  in  Napoleon,  I had,  till  then,  no  conception. 
It  was  not  that  in  the  profound  skill  and  immense  resources  of 
the  present  they  trusted;  but  they  actually  regarded  him  as  one 
placed  above  all  the  common  accidents  of  fortune,  and  revered 
him  as  something  more  than  human. 

“ JZ  viendra  et  puis^' — was  the  continued  exclamation  of  the 
young  Frenchman.  Any  notion  of  our  successfully  resisting  the 
overwhelming  might  of  the  Emperor,  he  would  have  laughed  to 
scorn,  and  so  I let  him  go  on  prophesying  our  future  misfortune 
till  the  time,  when  driven  back  upon  Lisbon,  we  should  be  com- 
pelled to  evacuate  the  peninsula,  and  under  favor  of  a conven- 
tion, be  permitted  to  return  to  England.  All  this  was  sufficient- 
ly ridiculous,  coming  from  a youth  of  nineteen,  wounded,  in 
misery,  a prisoner;  but  further  experience  of  his  nation  has 
shown  me  that  St.  Croix  was  not  the  exception,  but  the  rule. 
The  conviction  in  the  ultimate  success  of  their  army,  whatever 
be  the  merely  momentary  mishap,  is  the  one  present  thought  of 
a Frenchman;  and  victory  with  them  is  a conquest— a defeat,  if 
they  are  by  any  chance  driven  to  acknowledge  one — ^fatalite. 

I was  too  young  a man,  and  still  more,  too  young  a soldier,  to 
bear  with  this  absurd  affectation  of  superiority  as  I ought,  and 
consequently  was  glad  to  wander,  whenever  I could,  from  the 
contested  ground  of  our  national  rivalry  to  other  topics.  St. 
Croix,  although  young,  had  seen  much  of  the  world.  As  a page 
in  the  splendid  court  of  the  Tuilleries,  the  scenes  ever  passing  be- 
fore his  eyes  were  calculated  to  interest  and  amuse;  and  by  many 
an  anecdote  of  his  former  life  he  lightened  the  road  as  we  passed 
along. 

“You  promised,  by  the  bye,  to  tell  me  of  your  banishment. 
How  did  that  occur,  St.  Croix 

“ ATi,  par  Dieu—ih2it  was  an  unfortunate  affair  for  me;  then 
began  all  my  mishaps — but  for  that,  I should  never  have  been 
sent  to  St.  Cloud — never  have  played  leap  frog  with  the  Emperor 
— never  have  been  sent  a soldier  into  Spain.  True,”  said  he, 
laughing,  “I  should  never  have  had  the  happiness  of  your  ac- 
quaintance. But  still,  I’d  much  rather  have  met  you  first  in  the 
Place  de  la  Vicforie  than  in  the  Estrella  mountains.” 

“ Who  knows,”  said  I,  “perhaps  j^our  good  genius  prevailed 
in  all  this  ?” 

“Perhaps,”  said  he,  interrupting  me;  “that’s  exactly  what 
the  Empress  said — who  was  my  god-mother — ‘ Gales  will  be  a 
Marechal  de  France  yet.’  But,  certainly,  it  must  be  confessed,  I 
have  made  a bad  beginning.  However,  you  wish  to  bear  of  my 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


267 


disgrace  at  court — Allons  done,  here  goes.  But  had  we  not  bet- 
ter wait  for  a halt 

“ Agreed,”  said  “ and  so  let  us  now  press  forward.” 


CHAPTER  LII. 

THE  PAGE. 

Under  the  deep  shade  of  some  tall  trees — sheltered  from  the 
noon-day  sun,  we  lay  down  to  rest  ourselves,  and  enjoy  a most 
patriarchal  dinner — some  dry  biscuits,  a few  bunches  of  grapes, 
and  a little  weak  wine,  were  all  we  boasted;  yet  they  were  not 
ungrateful  at  such  a time  and  place. 

“Whose  health  did  you  pledge  then?”  said  St.  Croix,  with 
a half  malicious  smile,  as  I raised  the  glass  silently  to  my  lips. 

I blushed  deeply,  and  looked  confused. 

“ A ses  beaux  yeux,  whoever  she  may  be,”  said  he,  gayly  toss- 
ing off  his  wine — “ and  now,  if  you  feel  disposed.  I’ll  tell  you  my 
story.  It  in  good  truth  is  not  worth  relating,  but  it  may  serve 
to  set  you  asleep,  at  all  events. 

“ I have  already  told  you  I was  a page.  Alas,  the  impressions 
you  may  feel  of  that  functionary,  from  having  seen  Cherubiuo, 
give  but  a faint  notion  of  him,  when  iDertaining  to  the  household 
of  the  Emperor  Napoleouo 

“The  Farfallone  Amoroso  basked  in  the  soft  smiles  and  sunny 
looks  of  the  Countess  Almaviva;  we  met  but  the  cold  impassive 
look  of  Talleyrand — the  piercing  and  penetrating  stare  of  Savary 
— or  the  ambiguous  smile,  half  menace,  half  mockery  of  Monsieur 
Fouche.  While  on  service,  our  days  were  passed  in  the  ante- 
chamber, beside  the  sail  d'audience  of  the  Emperor — reclining 
against  the  closed  door,  watcliing  attentively  for  the  gentle 
tinkle  of  the  little  bell  which  summoned  us  to  open  for  the  exit 
of  some  wily  diplomate,  or  the  entree  of  some  redoubted  general. 
Thus  passed  we  the  weary  hours,  the  illustrous  visitors  by  whom 
we  were  surrounded  had  no  novelty,  consequently  no  attraction 
for  us,  and  the  names  already  historical  were  but  household 
words  with  us. 

“We  often  remarked,  too,  the  proud  and  distant  bearing  the 
Emperor  assumed  toward  those  of  his  generals  who  had  been  his 
former  companions  in  arms.  Whatever  familiarity  or  freedom 
may  have  existed  in  the  campaign,  or  in  the  battle-field,  the  air 
of  the  Tuileries  certainly  chilled  it.  I have  often  heard  that  the 
ceremonious  observances  and  rigid  etiquette  of  the  old  Bourbon 
court  was  far  preferable  to  the  stern  reserve  and  unbending 
stiffness  of  the  imperial  one. 

“ The  antechamber  is  but  the  reflection  of  the  reception-room; 
and  whatever  be  the  whims — the  caprices — the  littleness  of  the 
Great  Man,  they  are  speedily  assumed  by  his  inferiors — and  the 
dark  temper  of  one  casts  a lowering  shadow  on  every  menial  by 
whom  he  is  surrounded. 

“ As  for  us  we  were  certainly  not  long  in  catching  somewhat 
of  the  spirit  of  the  Emperor;  and  I doubt  much,  if  the  imperti- 
nence of  the  waiting-room  was  not  more  dreaded  and  detested 
than  the  abrupt  speech  and  searching  look  of  Napoleon  himself. 


263 


CHARLES  aUALLEY. 


‘‘  What  a malicious  pleasure  have  I not  felt  in  arresting  the 
step  of  M.  de  Talleyrand,  as  he  approached  the  Emperor’s  closet 
— with  what  easy  insolence  have  I lisped  out,  ‘ Pardon,  Monsieur, 
but  his  Majesty  cannot  receive  you  ’—or  ‘ Monsieur  Le  Due,  his 
Majesty  has  given  no  orders  for  your  admission.’  How  amusing 
it  was  to  watch  the  baffled  look  of  each,  as  he  retired  once  more 
to  his  place  among  the  crowd;  the  wily  diplomate  covering 
his  chagrin  with  a practiced  smile,  while  the  stern  marshal 
would  blush  to  his  very  eyes  with  indignation.  This  was  the 
great  pleasure  that  our  position  afforded  us;  and  with  a boyish 
spirit  of  mischief,  we  cultivated  it  to  perfection,  and  became  at 
last  the  very  horror  and  detestation  of  all  who  frequented  the 
levees;  and  the  embassador,  whose  fearless  voice  was  heard 
among  the  councils  of  kings,  became  soft  and  conciliating  in 
his  approaches  to  us;  and  the  hardy  general,  who  would  have 
charged  upon  a brigade  of  artillery,  was  as  timid  as  a girl  in  ad- 
dressing us  a mere  question. 

“ Among  the  amiable  class  thus  characterized,  I was  most  con- 
spicuous, preserving  cautiously  a tone  of  civility,  that  left  noth- 
ing openly  to  complain  of.  1 assumed  an  indifference  and  im- 
partiality of  manner  that  no  exigency  of  affairs — no  pressing 
haste,  could  discompose  or  disturb,  and  my  bow  of  recognition 
to  Soult  or  Massena  was  as  coolly  measured,  as  my  monosyllabic 
answer  was  accurately  conned  over. 

“ Upon  ordinary  occasions,  the  Emperor,  at  the  close  of  each 
person's  audience,  rang  his  little  bell  for  the  admission  of  the 
next  in  order,  as  they  arrived  in  the  waiting-room;  yet  when 
anything  important  was  under  consideration,  a list  was  given  us 
in  the  morning  of  the  names  to  be  presented  in  rotation,  which 
no  casual  circumstance  was  ever  suffered  to  interfere  with. 

“ It  is  now  about  four  months  since,  one  fine  morning,  such  a 
list  was  placed  within  my  hands.  His  Majesty  was  just  then 
occupied  with  an  inquiry  into  the  naval  force  in  the  kingdom; 
and,  as  I cast  my  eyes  carelessly  over  the  names,  I read  little 
else  than  Vice-admiral  so-and-so.  Commander  such  an  one,  and 
Chief  d’Escadron  such  another,  and  the  levee  presented  accord- 
ingly, instead  of  its  usual  brifiiant  array  of  gorgeous  uniforms 
and  aiguiletted  marshals,  the  simple  blue-and-gold  of  the  naval 
service. 

The  marine  was  not  in  high  favor  with  the  Emperor,  and 
truly  my  reception  of  these  unfrequent  visitors  was  anything 
but  flattering.  The  early  part  of  the  morning  was,  as  usual, 
occupied  by  the  audience  of  the  Minister  of  Police  and  the  Due 
de  Bassano,  who,  evidently,  from  the  length  of  time  they  re- 
mained, had  matters  of  importance  to  communicate.  Mean- 
while, the  antechamber  filled  rapidly,  and.  before  noon,  was 
actually  crowded.  It  was  just  at  this  moment  that  the  folding- 
door  slowly  opened,  and  a figure  entered,  such  as  I had  never 
before  seen  in  our  brilliant  saloon.  He  was  a man  of  five  or 
six-and-fifty,  short,  thick-set  and  strongly  built,  with  a bronzed 
and  weather-beaten  face  and  a broad  open  forehead,  deeply 
scarred  with  a saber-cut;  a shaggy  gray  mustache  curled  over, 
f^nd  concealed  bis  mouth,  while  eyebrows  of  the  same  color 


CHARLES  O^M ALLEY.  269 

shaded  his  dark  and  piercing  eyes.  His  dress  was  a coarse  coat 
of  blue  cloth,  such  as  the  fishermen  wear  in  Bretagny,  fastened 
at  the  waist  by  a broad  belt  of  black  leather,  from  which  hung 
a short'bl^ded  cutlass.  His  loose  trowsers,  of  the  same  ma- 
terial, were  turned  up  at  the  ankles,  to  show  a pair  of  strong 
legs,  coarsely  cased  in  blue  stockings  and  thin-soled  shoes;  a 
broad-leaved  oil-skin  hat  was  held  in  one  hand,  and  the  other 
stuck  carelessly  in  his  pocket,  as  he  entered;  he  came  in  with  a 
careless  air,  and,  familiarly  saluting  one  or  two  officers  in  the 
room,  sat  himself  down  near  the  door,  appearing  lost  in  his  own 
reflections. 

“ ‘Who  can  you  be,  my  worthy  friend?’  was  my  question  to 
myself,  as  I surve3^ed  this  singular  apparition;  at  the  same  time 
casting  my  eyes  down  the  list,  I perceived  that  several  pilots  of 
the  coast  of  Havre,  Calais,  and  Boulogne,  had  been  summoned 
to  PaHs  to  give  some  information  upon  the  soundings  and  depth 
of  water  along  the  shore. 

“ ‘ Ha,’  thought  I,  ‘ I have  it — the  good  man  has  mistaken  his 
place,  and  instead  of  remaining  without,  has  walked  boldly 
forward  to  the  antechamber.’  There  was  something  so  strange 
and  so  original  in  the  grim  look  of  the  old  fellow,  as  he  sat 
there  alone,  that  I suffered  him  to  remain  quietly  in  his  delusion, 
instead  of  ordering  him  back  to  the  waiting-room  without;  be- 
sides, I perceived-  that  a kind  of  sensation  was  created  among 
the  others  by  his  appearance  there,  which  amused  me  greatly. 

“ As  the  day  wore  on,  the  officers  formed  into  little  groups  of 
three  or  four,  chatting  together  in  an  under-tone  of  voice;  all, 
save  the  old  pilot — he  had  taken  a huge  tobacco-box  from  his 
capacious  breast  pocket,  and  inserting  an  immense  piece  of  the 
bitter  weed  in  his  mouth,  began  to  chew  it  as  leisurely  as  though 
he  were  walking  the  quarter-deck.  The  cool  Ansoiiciance  ' of 
such  a proceeding  amused  me  much,  and  I resolved  to  draw  him 
out  a little. 

“ His  strong,  broad  features,  his  deep  voice,  his  dry,  blun  t 
manner,  were  all  in  admirable  keeping  with  his  exterior,  and 
amused  me  highly. 

“ '*  Par  Lieu,  my  lad,’  said  he,  after  chatting  some  time,  ‘ had 
you  not  better  tell  the  Emperor  that  I am  waiting  ? It’s  nov/ 
past  noon,  and  I must  eat  something.’ 

“ ‘ Have  a little  patience,’  said  I;  ‘ his  Majesty  is  going  to  in- 
vite you  to  dinner.’ 

“ ‘ Be  it  so,’  said  he,  gravely;  ‘ provided  the  hour  be  an  early 
one.  I’m  his  man.’ 

“ With  difficulty  did  I keep  down  my  laughter  as  he  said  this? 
and  continued: 

“ ‘ So  you  know  the  Emperor  already,  it  seems?’ 

“ ‘ Yes,  that  I do!  Premember  him  when  he  was  no  higher 
than  yourself.’ 

“ ‘ How  delighted  he’ll  be  to  find  you  here.  I hope  you  have 
brought  up  some  of  your  family  with  you,  as  the  Emperor 
would  be  so  flatttered  by  it  ?’ 

“ ‘No;  I’ve  left  them  at  home;  this  place  don’t  suit  us  much. 


270 


CHARLES  OAIALLEY. 


We  have  plenty  to  do,  besides  spending  our  time  and  money 
among  all  you  fine  folks  here.’ 

“ ‘ And  not  a bad  life  of  it  either,’  added  I.  * Fishing  for  cod 
and  herrings—stripping  a wreck  now  and  then.’  w 

“ He  stared  at  me  as  I said  this,  like  a tiger  on  the  spring,  but 
spoke  not  a word. 

“ ‘ And  how  many  young  sea- wolves  may  you  have  in  your 
den  at  home  ?’ 

“ ‘Six;  and  all  o’  them  able  to  carry  you  with  one  hand  at 
arm’s  length!’ 

“ ‘ I have  no  doubt.  I shall  certainly  not  test  their  ability 
But  you  yourself,  how  do  you  like  the  capital?’ 

“ ‘Not  over  well,  and  I’ll  tell  you  why ’ 

“As  he  said  this,  the  door  of  the  audience-chamber  opened, 
and  the  Emperor  appeared;  his  eyes  flashed  fire,  as  he  Rooked 
hurriedly  around  the  room. 

‘‘  ‘ Who  is  in  waiting  here  ?’ 

“ ‘I  am,  please  your  Majesty,'  said  I,  nowing  deeply,  as  I 
started  from  my  seat. 

“ ‘And  where  is  the  Admiral  Truguet?  Why  was  he  not 
admitted  ?’ 

“ ‘ Not  present,  your  Majesty,’  said  I,  trembling  with  fear. 

“ ‘ Hold  there,  young  fellow;  not  so  fast.  Here'he  is.’ 

“‘Ah,  Truguet,  mon  amiP  cried  the  Emperor,  placing  both 
hands  on  the  old  fellow's  shoulders;  ‘ how  long  have  you  been 
in  w'aiting  ?’ 

“ ‘ Two  hours  and  a half,’  said  he,  producing  in  evidence  a 
watch  like  a saucer. 

“ ‘ What!  two  hours  and  a half,  and  I not  know  it  ?' 

“‘No  matter;  I am  always  happy  to  serve  your  Majesty. 
But  if  that  fine  fellow  had  not  told  me  that  you  were  going  to 
ask  me  to  dinner ’ 

“ ‘He!  he  said  so— did  he?’  said  Napoleon,  turning  at  me  a 
glance  like  a wild  beast.  ‘Yes,  Truguet,  so  I am;  you  shall  dine 
with  me  to-day.  And  you,  sir,’  said  he,  dropping  his  voice  to  a 
whisper,  as  he  came  closer  toward  me;  ‘ and  you  have  dared  to 
speak  thus?  Call  in  a guard  there;  Capitaine,  put  this  person 
under  arrest;  he  is  disgraced — he  is  no  longer  page  of  the  palace. 
Out  of  my  presence!  away,  sir!’ 

“ The  room  wheeled  round;  my  legs  tottered,  my  senses  reeled; 
and  I saw  no  more. 

“ Three  weeks’  bread  and  water  in  St.  Pelagie,  however, 
brought  me  to  my  recollection;  and  at  last  my  kind — my  more 
than  kind  friend — the  Empress,  obtained  my  pardon,  and  sent 
me  to  St.  Cloud  till  the  Emperor  should  forget  all  about  it. 
How  I contrived  again  to  refresh  his  memory  I have  already 
told  you;  and  certainly  you  will  acknov^dedge  that  I have  not 
been  fortunate  in  my  interviews  with  Napoleon.” 

I am  conscious  how  much  St.  Croix’s  story  loses  in  my  telling. 
The  naive  expressions,  the  grace  of  the  narrative,  were  its  charm ; 
and  these,  alas!  I can  neither  translate  nor  imitate,  no  more  than 
1 can  convey  the  strange  mixture  of  deep  feeling  and  levity, 


CHARLES  a M ALLEY.  271 

shrewdness  and  simplicity,  that  constituted  the  manner  of  the 
narrator. 

With  many  a story  of  his  courtly  career  he  amused  me  as  we 
trotted  along;  when,  toward  nightfall  of  the  third  day,  a peas- 
ant informed  us  that  a body  of  French  cavalry  occupied  the  con- 
vent of  San  Cristoval,  about  three  leagues  off.  The  opportunity 
of  his  return  to  his  own  army  pleased  him  far  less  than  1 ex- 
pected; he  heard ’t  without  any  show  of  satisfaction  that  the 
time  of  his  liberation  had  arrived,  and  when  the  moment  of 
leave-taking  drew  near,  he  became  deeply  affected. 

“ hien,  Charles,”  said  he,  smiling  sadly  through  his 
dimmed  and  tearful  eyes.  You’ve  been  a kind  friend  to  me. 
Is  the  time  never  to  come  when  I can  repay  you  ?' 

“Yes,  yes;  we’ll  meet  again;  be  assured  of  it.  Meanwhile, 
there  is  one  way  you  can  more  than  repay  anything  I have  done 
for  you.” 

“ Oh:  name  it  at  once.” 

“ Many  a brave  fellow  of  ours  is  now,  and  doubtless  many 
more  will  be,  prisoners  with  your  army  in  this  war.  Whenever, 
therefore,  your  lot  brings  you  in  contact  with  such ” 

“They  shall  be  my  brothers,”  said  he,  springing  toward  me, 
and  throwing  his  arm  round  m}^  neck.  “Adieu,  adieu!”  With 
that  he  rushed  from  the  spot,  and  before  I could  speak  again, 
was  mounted  upon  the  peasant’s  horse,  and  waving  his  hand  to 
me  in  farewell. 

I looked  after  him  as  he  rode  at  a fast  gallop  down  the  slope 
of  the  green  mountain,  the  noise  of  the  horse’s  feet  echoing 
along  the  silent  plain.  I turned  at  length  to  leave  the  spot,  and 
then  perceived,  for  the  first  time,  that  when  taking  his  farewell 
of  me,  he  had  hung  around  my  neck  his  miniature  of  the  Em- 
press. Poor  boy!  how  sorrowful  I felt  thus  to  rob  him  of  what 
he  held  so  dear!  how  gladly  would  I have  overtaken  him  to  re- 
store it!  It  was  the  only  keepsake  he  possessed,  and,  knowing 
that  I could  not  accept  it  if  offered,  he  took  this  way  of  com- 
pelling me  to  keep  it. 

Through  the  long  hours  of  the  summer’s  night  I thought  of 
him;  and,  when,  at  last,  I slept  toward  morning,  my  first 
thought,  on  waking,  was  of  the  solitary  day  before  me.  The 
miles  no  longer  slipped  imperceptibly  along;  no  longer  did  the 
noon  and  night  seem  fast  to  follow.  Alas!  that  one  should 
grow  old!  the  very  sorrows  of  our  early  years  have  something 
soft  and  touching  in  them.  Arising  less  from  deep  wrong  than 
slight  mischances,  the  grief  they  cause  comes  ever  with  an  alloy 
of  pleasant  thoughts,  telling  of  the  tender  past;  and  mid  the 
tears  called  up.  forming  some  bright  rainbow  of  future  hope. 

Poor  St.  Croix  had  already  won  greatly  upon  me;  and  I felt 
lonely  and  desolate  when  he  departed. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

AL^AS. 

Nothing  of  incident  marked  our  further  progress  toward  the 
frontier  of  Spain,  and  at  length  we  reached  the  small  town  of 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


Alvas.  It  was  past  sunset  as  we  arrived;  and,  instead  of  the 
usual  quiet  and  repose  of  a little  village,  we  found  the  streets 
crowded  with  people  on  horseback  and  on  foot;  mules,  bullocks, 
carts,  and  wagons  blocked  up  the  way,  and  the  oaths  of  the 
drivers  and  the  screaming  of  women  and  children  resounded  on 
all  sides. 

With  what  little  Spanish  I possessed  I questioned  some  of 
those  near  me,  and  learned,  in  reply,  that  a dreadful  engage- 
ment had  taken  place  that  day  between  the  advance  guard  of 
the  French,  under  Victor,  and  the  Lusitanian  Legion;  that  the 
Portuguese  troops  had  been  beaten  and  completely  routed,  los- 
ing all  their  artillery  and  baggage;  that  the  French  were  rapidly 
advancing,  and  expected  hourly  to  arrive  at  Alvas;  in  conse- 
quence of  which  tlie  terror-stricken  inhabitants  were  packing  up 
their  possessiDns  and  hurrying  away. 

Here,  then,  was  a point  of  considerable  difficulty  for  me  at 
once.  My  instructions  had  never  provided  for  such  a conjunct- 
ure, and  I was  totally  unable  to  determine  what  was  best  to  be 
done.  Both  my  men  and  their  horses  were  completely  tired  by 
a march  of  fourteen  leagues,  and  had  a pressing  need  of  some 
rest.  On  every  side  of  me  the  preparations  for  night  were  pro- 
ceeding with  all  the  speed  that  fear  inspires;  and  to  my  urgent 
request  for  some  information  as  to  food  and  shelter,  I could  ob- 
tain no  other  reply  than  muttered  menaces  of  the  fate  before 
me,  if  I remained,  and  exaggerated  accounts  of  French  cruelty. 

Amid  all  this  bustle  and  confusion  a tremendous  fall  of  heavy 
rain  set  in,  which  at  once  determined  me,  come  what  might,  to 
house  my  party,  and  provide  forage  for  our  horses. 

As  we  pushed  our  way  slowly  through  the  encumbered  streets, 
looking  on  every  side  for  some  appearance  of  a village  inn,  a 
tremendous  shout  rose  up  in  our  rear,  and  a rush  of  the  people 
toward  us  induced  us  to  suppose  that  the  French  were  upon  us. 
For  some  minutes  the  din  and  uproar  was  terrific — the  clatter  of 
horses’  feet,  the  braying  of  trumpets,  the  yelling  of  the  mob,  all 
mingled  in  one  frightful  concert. 

I formed  my  men  in  close  column,  and  waited  steadily  for  the 
attack,  resolving,  if  possible,  to  charge  through  the  advancing 
files;  any  retreat  through  the  crowded  and  blocked  up  thorough- 
fares being  totally  out  of  the  question.  The  rain  was  falling  in 
such  torrents  that  nothing  could  be  seen  a few  yards  off,  when 
suddenly  a pause  of  a few  seconds  occurred,  and,  from  the  clash 
of  accouterments  and  the  hoarse  tones  of  a loud  voice,  I judged 
that  the  body  of  men  before  us  were  forming  for  attack. 

Resolving,  therefore,  to  take  them  by  surprise,  I gave  the  word 
to  charge,  and,  spurring  our  jaded  cattle,  onward  we  dashed. 
The  mob  fled  right  and  left  from  us  as  we  came  on;  and  through 
the  dense  mist  we  could  just  perceive  a body  of  cavalry  before 
us. 

In  an  instant  we  were  among  them;  down  they  went  on  every 
side,  men  and  horses  rolling  pell-mell  over  each  other — not  a 
blow,  not  a shot  striking  us  as  we  pressed  on.  Never  did  I wit- 
ness such  total  consternation;  some  threw  themselves  from  their 
horses,  and  fled  toward  the  houses;  others  turned,  and  tried  to 


CHARLES  aMALLEY.  273 

fall  back,  but  the  increasing  pressure  from  behind  held  them, 
and  finally  succeeded  in  blocking  us  up  amongst  them. 

It  was  just  at  this  critical  moment  that  a sudden  gleam  of 
light  from  a window  fell  upon  the  disordered  mass,  and  to  my 
astonishment — I need  not  say  my  delight,  I perceived  that  they 
were  Portuguese  troops.  Before  I had  well  time  to  halt  my 
party,  my  convictions  were  pretty  well  strengthened  by  hearing 
a.  w^ell-known  voice  in  the  rear  of  the  mass  call  out: 

‘‘ Charge,  ye  devils!  charge,  will  ye  ? illustrious  Hidalgos;  cut  . 
them  down;  lo8  infidelos,  sacriflcados  los ; scatter  them  like  I 
chaff!”  ^ 

One  roar  of  laughter  was  my  only  answer  to  the  energetic 
appeal  for  my  destruction,  and  the  moment  after,  the  dry  feat- 
ures and  pleasant  face  of  old  Monsoon  beamed  on  me  by  the 
light  of  a pine  torch  he  carried  in  his  right  hand. 

‘‘Are  they  prisoners  ? have  they  surrendered  ?”  inquired  he, 
riding  up. 

“It  is  well  for  them;  we*d  have  made  mince-meat  of  them 
otherwise;  now  they  shall  be  well  treated,  and  ransomed  if  they 
prefer.” 

“ Gracios  excellenze said  I,  in  a feigned  voice. 

“Give  up  your  sword,”  said  the  Major,  in  an  under- tone. 
“You  behaved  gallantly,  but  you  fought  against  invincibles. 
Lord  love  them,  but  they  are  the  most  terrified  invincibles.” 

I nearly  burst  aloud  at  this. 

“It  was  a close  thing  which  of  us  ran  first,”  muttered  the 
Major,  as  he  turned  to  give  some  directions  to  an  aid-de-camp. 

“ Ask  them  who  they  are,”  said  he,  “in  Spanish.” 

By  this  time  I came  closely  along  side  of  him,  and  placing  my 
mouth  close  to  his  ear,  hallooed  out: 

“Monsoon,  old  fellow,  how-  goes  the  King  of  Spain’s  sherry?” 

“Eh,  what — why — upon  my  life,  and  so  it  is— Charley,  my 
boy,  so  it’s  you,  is  it?  egad,  how  good,  and  we  were  so  near 
being  the  death  of  you.  My  poor  fellow,  hovr  came  you  here  ?” 

A few  words  of  explanation  sufficed  to  inform  the  Major  why 
we  were  there,  and  still  more  to  comfort  him  with  the  assurance 
that  he  had  not  been  charging  the  general’s  staff,  and  the  Com- 
mander-in-Cbief  himself. 

“ Upon  my  life,  you  gave  me  a great  start  though;  as  long  as 
I thought  you  were  French,  it  was  very  well. 

“ True,  Major;  but  certainly  the  invincibles  were  merciful  as 
they  were  strong.” 

“ They  were  tired,  Charley,  nothing  more;  why,  lad,  we’ve 
been  fighting  since  daybreak;  beat  Victor  at  six  o’clock;  drove 
him  back  behind  the  Tagus;  took  a cold  dinner,  and  had  at  him 
again  in  the  afternoon.  Lord  love  you!  we’ve  immortalized 
ourselves;  but  you  must  never  speak  of  this  little  business  here; 
it  tells  devilishly  ill  for  the  discipline  of  your  fellows;  upon  my 
life  it  does.” 

This  was  rather  an  original  turn  to  give  the  transaction,  but  I 
did  not  oppose,  and  thus  chatting,  we  entered  the  little  inn, 
where,  confidence  once  restored,  some  semblance  of  comfort  al- 
ready anneared. 


a74 


CIIAELES  aMALLEY. 


And  so  you’ve  come  to  reinforce  us,”  said  Monsoon;  ‘‘  there 
was  never  anything  more  opportune;  though  we  surprised  our- 
selves to-day  with  valor,  I don’t  think  we  could  persevere.” 

“Yes,  Major,  the  appointment  gave  me  sincere  pleasure;  to 
see  a little  service  under  your  orders,  I greatly  desired ; shall  I 
present  you  with  my  dispatches?” 

“ Not  now,  Charley — not  now,  my  lad.  Supper  is  the  first 
thing  at  this  moment;  besides,  now  that  you  remind  me,  I must 
send  off  a dispatch  myself.  Upon  my  life,  it’s  a great  piece  of 
fortune  that  you’re  here;  you  shall  be  secretary  at  war,  and 
write  it  for  me;  here  now — how  lucky  that  I thought  of  it,  to 
be  sure!  and  it  was  jiist  a mere  chance;  one  has  so  many 

things ” Muttering  such  broken,  disjointed  sentences,  the 

Major  opened  a large  portfolio  with  writing  materials,  which 
he  displayed  before  me;  as  be  rubbed  his  hands  with  satisfac- 
tion, and  said:  “ Write  away,  rny  lad.” 

“But,  my  dear  Major,  you  forget;  I was  not  in  the  action. 
You  must  describe;  I can  only  follow  you.” 

“Begin,  then,  thus: 

“ ‘ Head  Quarters,  Alvas,  June  26. 

“ ‘ Your  Excellency: 

“ ‘ Having  learned  from  Don  Alphonzo  Xaviero  da 
Minto,  an  officer  upon  my  personal  staff ’ ” 

“ Luckily  sober  at  that  moment 

“ ‘ That  the  advance  guard  of  the  Eighth  corps  of  the  French 
army ’ 

“Stay,  though;  was  it  the  Eighth?  Upon  my  life,  I’m  not 
quite  clear  as  to  that;  blot  the  word  a little  and  go  on. 

“ ' That  the corps,  under  Marshal  Victor,  had  commenced 

a forward  movement  tovv-ard  Alcantra.  I immediately  ordered 
a flank  movement  of  the  light  infautiy  regiment  to  cover  the 
bridge  over  the  Tagus — after  breakfast ’ 

“ I’m  afraid,  Major,  that  is  not  precise  enough.” 

“ ‘ Well,  about  eleven  o’clock,  the  French  skirmishers  attacked 
and  drove  in  our  pickets  that  were  posted  in  front  of  our  position, 
and,  following  rapidly  up  with  cavalry,  they  took  a few  prison- 
ers, and  killed  old  Alphonso;  he  ran  like  a man,  they  say,  but 
they  caught  him  in  the  rear.’ 

“You  needn’t  put  that  in  if  you  don’t  like. 

“ ‘ I now  directed  a charge  of  the  cavalry  brigade  under  Don 
Asturias  Y’Hajos  that  cut  them  up  in  fine  style;  our  artillery, 
posted  on  the  heights,  mowing  away  at  their  columns  like 
fun. 

“ ‘ Victor  didn’t  like  this,  and  got  into  a wood;  when  we  all 
went  to  dinner;  it  was  about  two  o'clock  then. 

“‘After  dinner  the  Portuguese  light  corps,  under  Silva  da* 
Onora.  having  made  an  attack  upon  the  enemy's  left,  without 
my  orders,  got  devilishly  well  trounced,  and  served  them  right; 
but,  coming  up  to  their  assistance  with  the  heavy  brigade  of 
guns  and  the  cavalry,  we  drove  back  the  French,  and  took 
several  prisoners,  none  of  whom  we  put  to  death.’ 

“ Dash  that — Sir  Arthur  likes  respect  for  the  usages  of  wan 
Lord,  how  dry  I’m  getting! 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


275 


‘ The  French  were  soon  seen  to  letire  their  heavy  guns,  and 
speedily  afterward  retreated.  We  pursued  them  for  some  time, 
but  they  showed  fight,  and  as  it  was  getting  dark,  I drew  off 
my  forces,  and  came  here  to  supper.  Your  excellency  will  per- 
ceive by  the  inclosed  return  that  our  loss  has  been  consid- 
erable. 

“ ‘ I send  thii  dispatch  by  Don  Emmanuel  Forgales,  whoso 
services’ — I back  him  for  mutton  hash  with  onions  against  the 
whole  regiment—*  have  been  of  a most  distinguished  nature, 
and  beg  to  recommend  him  to  your  excellency’s  favor. 

“ ‘ I have  the  honor,  &c.’ 

” Is  it  finished,  Charley  ? — Egad,  I am  glad  of  it,  for  here 
comes  supper.” 

The  door  opened  as  he  spoke,  and  displayed  a tempting  tray  of 
smoking  viands,  flanked  by  several  bottles — an  officer  of  the 
major’s  staff  accompanied  it,  and  showed  by  his  attentions  to 
the  etiquette  of  the  table,  and  the  proper  arrangement  of  the 
meal,  that  his  functions  in  his  superior’s  household  were  more 
than  military. 

We  were  speedily  joined  by  two  others  in  rich  uniform,  whose 
names  1 now  forget,  but  to  whom  the  major  presented  me  in  all 
form;  introducing  me  as  well  as  I could  interpret  his  Spanish, 
as  his  most  illustrious  ally  and  friend — Don  Carlos  O’Malley. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

< THE  SUPPER. 

I HAVE  often  partaken  of  more  luxurious  cookery,  and  rarer 
wines;  but  never  do  I remember  enjoying  a more  welcome  sup- 
per than  on  this  occasion. 

Our  Portuguese  guests  left  us  soon,  and  the  major  and  my- 
self were  once  more  tete-a-tete,  beside  a cheerful  fire;  a well- 
chosen  array  of  bottles  guaranteeing  that  for  some  time,  at 
least,  no  necessity  of  leave-taking  should  arise  from  any  defi- 
ciency of  wine. 

**  Tliat  sherry  is  very  near  the  thing,  Charley;  a little,  a very 
little  sharp,  but  the  after-taste  perfect;  and  now,  my  boy,  how 
have  you  been  faring  since  we  parted?” 

“ Not  so  badly,  Major.  I have  already  got  a step  in  promo- 
tion. The  affair  at  the  Douro  gave  ine  a lieutenancy.” 

“I  wish  you  joy  with  all  my  heart.  I'll  call  you  Captain 
always  wdiile  you're  with  me.  Upon  my  life,  I will.  Why, 
man,  they  style  me  your  Excellency  here.  Bless  your  heart!  we 
are  great  folk  among  the  Portuguese;  and  no  bad  service  after 
all.” 

*‘  I should  think  not.  Major.  You  seem  to  have  always  made 
a good  thing  of  it.” 

“No,  Charley.  No,  my  boy.  They  overlook  us  greatly  in 
general  orders  and  dispatches.  Had  the  brilliant  action  of  to- 
day been  fought  by  the  British — but  no  matter;  they  may  behave 
well  in  England,  after  all;  and  when  I’m  called  to  the  Upper 
House  as  Baron  Monsoon  of  the  Tagus— is  that  better  than  Lord 
Alcantara?” 


m 


CHARLES  am  ALLEY. 


‘‘  I prefer  the  latter.” 

‘‘Well,  then,  I’ll  have  it.  Lord!  what  a treaty  I’ll  move  for 
with  Portugal,  to  let  us  have  wine  cheap — wine,  you  know,  as 
David  says,  ‘ give  us  a pleasant  countenance  ’ — and  oil — I forget 
what  oil  does.  Pass  over  the  decanter.  And  how  is  Sir  Arthur, 
Charley?  A fine  fellow,  but  sadly  deficient  in  the  knowledge  of 
the  supplies.  Never  would  have  made  any  character  in  the 
commissariat.  Bless  your  heart,  he  pays  for  everything  here, 
as  if  he  were  in  Cheapside.” 

“ How  absurd,  to  be  sure!” 

“Isn’t  it,  though;  that  was  not  my  way  when  I was  Com- 
missary-general about  a year  or  two  ago.  To  be  sure,  how  I did 
puzzle  them!  They  tried  to  audit  my  accounts,  and  what  do 
you  think  I did;  I brought  them  in  three  thousand  pounds  in 
my  debt.  They  never  tried  on  that  game  any  more.  ‘No!  no!’ 
said  the  Junta,  ‘Beresford  and  Monsoon  are  great  men,  and 
must  be  treated  with  respect.’  Do  you  think  we’d  let  them 
search  our  pockets?  But  the  rogues  doubled  on  us  after  all. 
They  sent  us  to  the  northward — a poor  country ” 

“ So  that,  except  a little  commonplace  pillage  of  the  convents 
and  nunneries,  you  had  little  or  nothing?” 

“Exactly  so;  and  then  I got  a great  shock  about  that  time, 
that  affected  my  spirits  for  a considerable  while.” 

“Indeed,  Major!  some  illness?” 

“ No;  T was  quite  well;  but  Lord!  how  thirsty  it  makes  me  to 
think  of  it!  my  throat  is  absolutely  parched.  I was  near  being 
hanged.” 

“ Hanged!” 

“Yes;  upon  my  life  it’s  true;  very  horrible,  ain’t  it?  It  had 
a great  effect  upon  my  nervoTis  system;  they  never  thought  of 
any  little  pension  for  me  as  a recompense  for  my  sufferings.” 

“And  who  was  barbarous  enough  to  think  of  such  a thing, 
Major  ?' 

“ Sir  Arthur  Wellesley,  himself  ; none  other,  Charley.” 

“ Oh,  it  was  a mistake.  Major,  or  a joke.” 

“ It  was  near  being  a very  practical  one,  though;  ITl  tell  you 
how  it  occurred.  After  the  battle^of  Vimiera,  the  brigade  to  which 
I was  attached  had  their  headquarters  at  San  Pietro,  a large  con- 
vent, where  all  the  church-plate  for  miles  round  was  stored  up 
for  safety.  A sergeant’s  guard  was  accordingly  stationed  over 
the  refectory,  and  every  precaution  taken  to  prevent  pillage,  Sir 
Arthur  himself  having  given  particular  orders  on  the  subject. 
Well,  somehow,  I never  could  find  out  how — but,  on  leaving  the 
place,  all  the  wagons  of  our  brigade  had  got  some  trading  arti- 
cles of  small  value  scattered,  as  it  mighi  be,  among. their  stores 
— gold  cups,  silver  candlesticks.  Virgin  Marys,  ivory  crucifixes, 
saints’  eyes  set  in  topazes,  martyrs’  toes  in  silver  filagree,  and  a 
hundred  other  similar  things.  One  of  these  confounded  bul- 
lock cars  broke  down  just  at  the  angle  of  the  road  where  the 
Commander-in-Chief  was  standing  with  his  staff  to  watch  the 
troops  defile,  and  out  rolled  among  bread,  rations,  and  salt  beef, 
a whole  avalanche  of  precious  relics  and  church  ornaments. 
Every  one  stood  aghast!  never  was  there  such  a misfortune;  no 


CHARLES  HMALLEY,  277 

one  endeavored  to  repair  the  mishap;  but  all  looked  on  in  terri- 
fied amazement  as  to  what  was  to  follow. 

“ ‘ Who  has  the  command  of  the  detachment?”  shouted  out 
Sir  Arthur,  in  a voice  that  made  more  than  one  of  us  tremble. 

“‘Monsoon,  your  Excellency — Major  Monsoon,  of  the  Portu- 
guese brigade.” 

“ ‘ The  d d old  rogue!  I know  him.’  Upon  my  life,  that’s 

what  he  said:  ‘ Hang  him  up  on  this  spot,’  pointing  with  his  fin- 
ger as  he  spoke.  ‘ We  shall  see  if  this  practice  cannot  be  put  a 
stop  to.’  And  with  these  words  he  rode  leisurely  away,  as  ]f  he 
bad  been  merely  ordering  dinner  for  a small  party. 

“ When  I came  up  to  the  place,  the  halberts  were  fixed,  and 
Gronow,  with  a company  of  the  fusiliers,  under  arms  beside 
them. 

“ ‘Very  sorry  for  it,  Major,’  said  he.  ‘It’s  confoundedly 
unpleasant;  but  can’t  be  helped.  We’ve  got  orders  to  see  you 
hanged!’ 

“ Faith  it  was  just  so  he  said  it,  tapping  his  snuff-box  as  he 
spoke,  and  looking  carelessly  about  him.  Now,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  fixed  halberts  and  the  Provost-Marshal,  I’d  not  have  be- 
lieved him;  but  one  glance  at  them,  and  another  at  the  bullock 
cart  with  all  the  holy  images,  told  me  at  once  what  had 
happened. 

“ ‘ He  only  meant  to  frighten  me  a little,  isn’t  that  all, 
Gronow  ?’  cried  I,  in  a supplicating  voice. 

“ ‘ Very  possibly.  Major,’  said  he;  ‘ but  I must  execute  my 
orders.’ 

“ ‘You’ll  surely  not ’ Before  I could  finish  up  came  Dan 

Makinnon,  cantering  smartly.  ‘ Going  to  hang  old  Monsoon, 
eh,  Gronow?  what  fun!’ 

“ ‘ Ain’t  it,  though?’  said  I,  half  blubbering. 

“ ‘ Well,  if  you’re  a good  Catholic  you  may  have  your  choice 
of  a saint,  for,  by  Jupiter,  there’s  a strong  muster  of  them  here.’ 
This  cruel  allusion  was  made  in  reference  to  the  gold  and  silver 
effigies  that  lay  scattered  about  the  highway. 

“ ‘Dan,’  said  I,  in  a whisper,  ‘intercede  for  me — do,  like  a 
good,  kind  fellow.  You  have  influence  with  Sir  Arthur,’ 

“ ‘ You  old  sinner,’  said  he,  ‘it’s  useless.’ 

“ ‘Dan,  I’ll  forgive  you  the  fifteen  pounds,’ 

“ ‘ That  you  owe  me,’  said  Dan,  laughing. 

“‘Who’ll  ever  be  the  father  to  you  I’ve  been?  Who’ll 
mix  your  punch  with  burnt  Madeira  when  I am  gone  ?* 
said  I. 

“ ‘Well,  really,  I am  sorry  for  you.  Monsoon.  I say,  Gro- 
now, don’t  tuck  him  up  for  a few  minutes;  I’ll  speak  for  the 
old  villain,  and,  if  I succeed.  I’ll  wave  my  handkerchief.’ 

“Well,  away  went  Dan  at  a full  gallop.  Gronow  sat  down  on 
a bank,  and  I fidgeted  about  in  no  very  enviable  frame  of  mind, 
the  confounded  Provost- Marshal  eying  me  allgthe  while. 

“ ‘ I can  only  give  you  five  minutes  more.  Major,’  said  Gro- 
now, placing  his  watch  beside  him  on  the  grass. 

“ I tried  to  pray  a little,  and  said  three  or  four  of  Solomon’s 
proverbs,  when  he  again  called  out: 


m 


(iHAnLP.S  a MALLET. 


“ * There,  you  see  it  won’t  do!  Sir  Arthur  is  shaking  his 
head.’ 

“ ‘ What’s  that  waving  yonder  ?’ 

“ ‘ The  colors  of  the  Sixth  Foot.  Come,  Major,  off  with  your 
stock!’ 

“ ‘ Where  is  Dan  now — what  is  he  doing  ?’  for  I could  see  noth- 
ing myself. 

“ ‘ He’s  riding  beside  Sir  Arthur;  they  all  seem  laughing.’ 

“ ‘ God  forgive  them!  what  an  awful  retrospect  this  thing  will 
prove  to  some  of  them.* 

'“Time’s  up,’  said  Gronow,  jumping  up  and  replacing  his 
watch  in  his  pocket. 

“ 'Provost-Marshal,  be  quick  now.’ 

" ' Eh!  what’s  that?  there,  I see  it  waving!  there’s  a shout, 
too!’ 

“ ‘ Ay,  by  Jove,  so  it  is.  Well,  you’re  saved  this  time.  Major; 
that’s  the  signal.’ 

" So  saying,  Gronow  formed  his  fellows  in  line  and  resumed 
his  march  quite  coolly,  leaving  me  alone  in  the  roadside  to  med- 
itate over  martial  law  and  my  pernicious  taste  for  relics. 

‘'Well,  Charley,  it  gave  me  a great  shock  and  I thought,  too, 
it  must  have  had  a great  effect  upon  Sir  Arthur  himself;  but, 
upon  my  life,  he  has  wonderful  nerves.  I met  him  one  day 
afterward  at  dinner  in  Lisbon:  he  looked  at  me  very  hard  for  a 
few  seconds. 

“ ‘ Eh,  Monsoon!  Major  Monsoon,  I think?’ 

“ ‘ Yes,  your  Excellency,’  said  I,  thinking  how  painful  itjmust 
be  for  him  to  meet  me. 

“ ‘I  thought  I had  hanged  you.  Major — know  I intended  it; 
no  matter.  A glass  of  wine  with  you.’ 

“ Upon  my  life,  that  was  all;  how  easily  some  people  can  for- 
give themselves!  But,  Charley,  my  hearty,  we  are  getting  on 
slowly  with  the  tipple.  Are  they  all  empty  ? so  they  are.  Let 
us  make  a sortie  on  the  cellar.  Bring  a candle  with  you,  and 
come  along.” 

We  had  scarcely  proceeded  a few  steps  from  the  door,  when  a 
most  vociferous  sound  of  mirth,  issuing  from  a neighboring 
apartment,  arrested  our  progress. 

“ Are  the  Dons  so  convivial.  Major?”  said  I,  as  a hearty  burst 
of  laughter  broke  forth  at  the  moment. 

‘ Upon  my  life,  they  surprise  me.  I begin  to  fear  they  have 
taken  some  of  our  wine.” 

We  now  perceived  that  the  sounds  of  merriment  came  from 
the  kitchen,  which  opened  upon  a little  court-yard.  Into  this 
we  crept  stealthily,  and  approaching  noiselessly  to  the  window, 
obtained  a peep  at  the  scene  within. 

Around  a blazing  fire,  over  which  hung  by  a chair  a massive 
iron  pot,  sat  a goodly  party  of  some  half  dozen  people.  One 
group  lay  in  dark  shadow,  but  the  other  was  brilliantly  lighted 
up  by  the  cheerful  blaze,  and  showed  us  a portly  Domini- 
can friar  with  a beard  down  to  his  waist,  a buxom  dark-eyed 
girl  of  some  eighteen  years,  and.  between  the  two,  most  com- 


CHARLES  SMALLEY.  279 

fortably  leaning  back  with  an  arm  round  each,  no  less  a person 
than  my  trusty  man,  Mickey  Free. 

It  was  evident,  from  the  alternate  motion  of  his  head,  that  his 
attentions  were  evenly  divided’  between  the  church  and  the  fair 
sex,  although,  to  confess  the  truth,  they  seemed  much  more  fav- 
orably received  by  the  latter  than  the  former,  a brown  earthen 
flagon  appearing  to  absorb  all  the  worthy  monk’s  thoughts  that 
he  could  spare  from  the  contemplation  of  heavenly  objects. 

“ Mary,  my  darlin’,  don't  be  looking  at  me  that  way,  through 
the  corner  of  your  eye — I know  you’re  fond  of  me;  but  the 
girls  always  was;  you  think  I’m  joking,  but  troth,  I wouldn’t 
say  a lie  before  the  holy  man  beside  me — sure  I wouldn’t, 
father.” 

The  friar  grunted  out  something  in  reply,  not  very  unlike,  in 
sound  at  least,  a hearty  anathema. 

‘‘Ah,  then!  isn’t  it  yourself  has  the  illegant  time  of  it,  father, 
dear,”  said  he,  tapping  him  familiarly  upon  his  ample  paunch, 
“and  nothing  to  trouble  you.  The  best  of  divarsion  wherever 
you  go,  and  whether  it’s  Badahos  or  Bally  Kilruddery  it’s  all 
one!  The  women  is  fond  of  ye.  Father  Murphy,  the  coadjutor 
in  Scariff,  was  just  such  another  as  yourself,  and  he’d  coax  the 
birds  off  the  trees  with  the  tongue  of  him.  Give  us  a pull  at  the 
pipkin  before  it’s  all  gone,  and  I’ll  give  you  a chant.” 

With  this  he  seized  the  jar,  and  drained  it  to  the  bottom;  the 
smack  of  his  lips  as  he  concluded — and  the  disappointed  look  of 
the  friar  as  he  peered  into  the  vessel,  throwing  the  others  once 
more  into  a loud  burst  of  laughter. 

“And  now,  your  rev’rance,  a good  chorus  is  all  I’ll  ask,  and 
you’ll  not  refuse  it  for  the  honor  of  the  church.” 

So  saying,  he  turned  a look  of  most  droll  expression  upon  the 
monk,  and  began  to  sing  the  following  ditty  to  the 

Air — “ST.  PATEICK  WAS  A GENTLEMAN. 

“ What  an  illegant  life  a friar  leads, 

With  his  fat  round  paunch  before  him; 

He  mutters  a prayer,  and  counts  his  beads, 

And  all  the  women  adore  him. 

It’s  little  he’s  troubled  to  work  or  think, 

Wherever  devotion  leads  him, 

A * Pater  ’ pays  for  his  dinner  and  drink. 

For  the  church — good  luck  to  her! — feeds  him. 

“ From  the  cow  in  the  field  to  the  pig  in  the  stye, 

From  the  maid  to  the  lady  in  satin. 

They  tremble  wherever  he  turns  his  eye; 

He  can  talk  to  the  devil  in  Latin! 

He’s  mighty  sevare  to  the  ugly  and  ould, 

And  curses  like  mad  when  he’s  near  ’em; 

But  one  beautiful  trait  of  him  I’ve  been  tould, 

The  innocent  craytures  don’t  fear  him. 

It’s  little  for  spirits  or  ghosts  he  cares, 

For  ’tis  true,  as  the  world  supposes. 

With  an  Ave  ’ he’d  make  them  march  down-staii*s^ 

Av  they  dared  to  show  thek  noses. 


280 


CHAELE3  O’^MALLEY. 

The  devil  himself’s  afraid,  ’tis  said, 

And  dares  not  to  deride  him; 

For  angels  make  each  night  his  bed, 

And  then — lie  down  beside  him.” 

A perfect  burst  of  laughter  from  Monsoon  prevented  my  hear- 
ing how  Mike’s  minstrelsy  succeeded  within  doors — but  when  I 
looked  again,  I found  that  the  friar  had  decamped,  leaving  the 
field  open  to  his  rival — a circumstance,  I could  plainly  perceive, 
not  disliked  by  either  party. 

‘‘  Come  back,  Charley — that  villain  of  yours  has  given  me  the 
cramp,  standing  here  on  the  cold  pavement.  We’ll  have  a little 
warm  posset — very  small — thin — as  they  say  in  Tom  Jones,  and 
then  to  bed,”  Notwithstanding  the  abstemious  intentions  of  the 
Major,  it  was  daybreak  ere  we  separated,  and  neither  party  in  a 
condition  for  performing  upon  the  tight-rope. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

THE  LEGION. 

My  services,  while  with  the  legion,  were  of  no  very  distin- 
guished character,  and  require  no  lengthened  chronicle.  Their 
great  feat  of  arms,  the  repulse  of  an  advanced  guard  of  Victor's 
corps,  had  taken  place  the  very  morning  I joined  them,  and  the 
ensuing  month  was  passed  in  soft  repose  upon  their  laurels. 

For  the  first  few  days,  indeed,  a multiplicity  of  cares  beset  the 
worthy  Major.  There  was  a dispatch  to  be  written  to  Beresford 
-—another  to  the  Supreme  Junta— a letter  to  Wilson,  at  that  time 
with  a corps  of  observation  to  the  eastward;  there  was  some 
wounded  to  be  looked  after,  a speech  to  be  made  to  the  conquer- 
ing heroes  themselves — and  lastly,  a few  prisoners  were  taken, 
whose  fate  seemed  certainly  to  partake  of  the  most  uncertain 
of  war’s  proverbial  chances. 

The  dispatches  gave  little  trouble.  With  some  very  slight  al- 
teration, the  great  original  already  sent  forward  to  Sir  Arthur 
served  as  a basis  for  the  rest.  "The  wounded  were  forwarded 
to  Alcantara,  with  a medical  staff,  to  whom  Monsoon,  at  part- 
ing, pleasantly  hinted,  that  he  expected  to  see  all  the  sick  at 
their  duty  by  an  early  day,  or  he  would  be  compelled  to  report 
the  doctors.  The  speech,  which  was  intended  as  a kind  of  gen- 
eral order,  he  deferred  for  some  favorable  afternoon — when  he 
could  “ get  up  his  Portuguese”— and  lastly  came  the  prisoners, 
by  far  the  most  difficult  of  all  his  cares.  As  for  the  few  common 
soldiers  taken,  they  gave  him  little  uneasiness;  as  Sir  John  has 
it,  they  ‘ ‘ were  mortal  men  and  food  for  powder  ” — but  there 
V7as  a staff  officer  among  them,  aiguiletted  and  epauleted — the 
very  decorations  he  wore  were  no  common  temptation.  Now 
the  Major  deliberated  a long  time  with  himself  whether  the 
usages  of  modern  war  might  not  admit  of  the  ancient  and  time- 
honored  practice  of  ransom.  The  battle,  save  in  glory,  had  been 
singularly  unproductive — plunder  there  was  none — the  few  am- 
munition-wagons and  gun-carriages  were  worth  little  or  nothing; 
so  that,  save  the  prisoners,  nothing  remained.  It  was  late  in 


CBARLES  O^MALLEY.  281 

the  evening — the  mellow  hour  of  the  Major’s  meditations — when 
he  ventured  to  open  his  heart  to  me  upon  the  matter. 

“ I was  just  thinking,  Charley,  how  very  superior  they  were 
in  olden  times  to  us  moderns  in  many  matters,  and  in  nothing 
more  than  their  treatment  of  prisoners — they  never  took  them 
away  from  their  friends  and  country ; they  alw'ays  ransomed 
them,  if  they  had  v herewithal  to  pay  their  way.  So  good 
natured — upon  my  life  it  was  a most  excellent  custom — they 
took  any  little  valuables  they  found  about  them,  and  then  put 
them  up  at  auction.  Moses  and  Eleazar,  a priest,  we  are  told, 
took  every  piece  of  gold,  and  their  wrought  jewels — meaning 
their  watches  and  ear-rings.  You  needn’t  laugh — they  all  wore 
ear-rings — those^fellows  did — now,  why  shouldn’t  I profit  by  their 
good  example  ? I have  taken  Agag,  the  King  of  the  Amalekites — 
no;  but,  upon  my  life,  I have  got  a French  major,  and  would 
let  him  go  for  fifty  doubloons.”  It  was  not  without  much 
laughing  and  some  eloquence  that  I could  persuade  Monsoon, 
that  Sir  Arthur’s  military  notions  might  not  accept  of  even  the 
authority  of  Moses;  and  as  our  headquarters  were  now  at  no 
great  distance,  the  danger  of  such  a step  as  he  meditated  was  too 
considerable  at  such  a moment. 

As  for  ourselves,  no  fatiguing  drills,  no  harrassing  field-days, 
and  no  provoking  inspections,  interfered  with  the  easy  current 
of  our  lives.  Foraging  parties  there  were,  it  is  true,  and  some 
occasional  outpost  duty  was  performed,  but  the  officers  for  both 
were  selected  with  a tact  that  proved  the  Major’s  appreciation  of 
character;  for  while  the  gay,  joyous  fellow  that  sung  a jovial 
song  and  loved  his  liquor  was  certain  of  being  retained  at  head- 
quarters, the  less  gifted  and  less  congenial  spirit  had  the  happi- 
ness of  scouring  the  country  for  forage,  and  presenting  himself 
as  a target  to  a French  rifle. 

My  own  endeavors  to  fulfill  my  instructions  met  with  but  little 
encouragement  or  support;  and  although  I labored  hard  at  my 
task,  I must  confess  that  the  soil  was  a most  ungrateful  one. 
The  cavalry  were,  it  is  true,  composed  mostly  of  young  fellows, 
well  appointed,  and,  in  most  cases,  well  mounted;  but  a more 
disorderly,  careless,  undisciplined  set  of  good-humored  fellows 
never  formed  a corps  in  this  world. 

Monsoon’s  opinions  were  felt  in  every  branch  of  the  service, 
from  the  Adjutant  to  the  drummer-boy ; the  same  reckless,  indo- 
lent, plunder-loving  spirit  prevailed  everywhere;  and,  although 
under  fire,  they  showed  no  lack  of  gallantry  or  courage,  the 
moment  of  danger  passed,  discipline  departed  with  it;  and  their 
only  conception  of  benefiting  by  a victory  consisted  in  the  amount 
of  pillage  that  resulted  from  it.  From  time  to  time  the  rumors  of 
great  events  reached  us.  We  heard  that  Soult,  having  succeeded 
in  reorganizing  his  beaten  army  was,  in  conjunction  with  Key’s 
corps,  returning  from  the  north;  that  the  Marshals  were  con- 
solidating their  forces  in  the  neighborhood  of  Talavera,  and  that 
King  Joseph  himself,  at  the  head  of  a large  army,  had  marched 
for  Madrid. 

Menacing  as  such  an  aspect  of  affairs  was,  it  had  little  dis- 
turbed the  Major’s  equanimity,  and  when  our  advanced  posts 


282 


CHARLES  OAIALLEY, 


reported  daily  that  the  French  were  in  retreat,  he  cared  little 
with  what  objects  of  concentration  they  retired,  provided  the 
interval  between  us  grew  gradually  wider. 

His  speculations  upon  the  future  were  singularly  prophetic. 
You'll  see,  Charley,  what  will  happen.  Old  Cuesta  will  pursue 
them,  and  get  thrashed.  The  English  will  come  up,  and  per- 
haps get  thrashed  too;  but— Heaven  help  us — we  are  only  a small 
force,  partially  organized,  and  ill  to  depend  on.  WeTl  go  up  the 
mountains  till  all’s  over.  Thus  did  the  Majors  discretion  not 
only  extend  to  the  avoidance  of  danger,  but  he  actually  dis- 
qualified himself  from  making  its  acquaintance. 

Meanwhile  our  operations  consisted  in  making  easy  marches 
to  Almarez,  halting  whenever  the  commissariat  reported  a well- 
stocked  cellar  or  a well-furnished  hen-roost.  Taking  the  primrose 
path  in  life,  and  being,  in  the  words  of  the  Major,  “contented 
and  grateful  even  amid  great  perils.” 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

THE  DEPARTURE. 

On  the  morning  of  the  10th  of  July,  a dispatch  reached  us 
announcing  that  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley  had  taken  up  his  head- 
quarters at  Placentia,  for  the  purpose  of  communicating  with 
Cuesta,  then  at  Case  del  Puerto,  and  ordering  me  immediately 
to  repair  to  the  Spanish  headquarters  and  await  Sir  Arthur’s 
arrival,  to  make  my  report  upon  the  effective  state  of  our  corps. 
As  for  me,  I was  heartily  tired  of  the  inaction  of  my  present  life, 
and,  much  as  I relished  the  eccentricitiesof  my  friend  the  Major, 
longed  ardently  for  a different  sphere  of  action. 

Not  so  Monsoon;  the  prospect  of  active  employment,  and  the 
thoughts  of  being  left  once  more  alone — for  his  Portuguese  staff 
afforded  him  little  society — depressed  him  greatly,  and,  as  the 
hour  of  my  departure  drew  near,  he  appeared  lower  in  spirits 
than  I had  ever  seen  him. 

“ I shall  be  very  lonely  without  you,  Charley,”  said  he,  with  a 
sigh,  as  we  sat  the  last  evening  together  beside  our  cheerful 
wood-fire.  “I  have  little  intercourse  with  the  Dons;  for  my 
Portuguese  is  none  of  the  best,  and  only  comes  when  the  evening 
is  far  advanced,  and,  besides,  the  villains,  I fear,  may  remember 
the  sherry  affair.  Two  of  my  present  staff  were  with  me  then.” 

“Is  that  the  story  Power  so  often  alluded  to,  Major — the  King 
of  Spain’s ?” 

“There,  Charley,  hush;  be  cautious,  my  boy;  I’d  Tather  not 
speak  about  that  till  we  get  amongst  our  own  fellows.” 

“Just  as  you  like.  Major;  but,  do  you  know,  I have  a strong 
curiosity  to  hear  the  narrative.” 

“ If  I’m  not  mistaken  there  is  some  one  listening  at  the  door; 
gently;  that's  it,  eh  ?” 

“ No;  we  are  perfectly  alone;  the  night’s  early;  who  knows 
when  we  shall  have  as  quiet  an  hour  again  together  ? Let  me 
hear  it,  by  all  means.” 

“Well,  I don’t  care;  the  thing,  Heaven  knows,  is  tolerably 
well  known;  so,  if  you’ll  amuse  yourself  making  a devil  of  the 


CHARLES  a MALLET. 


288 


turkey’fc>  there,  I’ll  tell  you  the  story.  It’s  very  short,  Charley, 
and  there’s  no  moral:  so  you're  not  likely  to  repeat  it.” 

So  saying,  the  Major  filled  up  his  glass,  drew  a little  closer 
to  the  fire,  and  began: 

“ When  the  French  troops  under  Laborde  were  marching  upon 
Alcobaca,  in  concert  with  the  Loison’s  corps,  I was  ordered  to 
convey  a very  valuable  present  of  sherry  the  Due  d’ Albuquerque 
was  making  to  the  Supreme  Junta — no  less  than  ten  hogsheads 
of  the  best  sherry  the  royal  cellars  of  Madrid  had  formerly  con- 
tained. 

“ It  was  stored  in  the  San  Vincente  convent;  and  the  Junta, 
knowing  a little  about  monkish  tastes  and  the  wants  of  the 
church,  prudently  thought  it  would  be  quite  as  well  at  Lisbon. 

I was  accordingly  ordered,  with  a sufiicient  force  to  provide  for 
its  safe  conduct  and  secure  arrival,  an^  set  out  upon  my  march 
one  lovely  morning  in  April  with  my  precious  convoy. 

“ I don’t  know,  I never  could  understand  why  temptations  are 
thrown  in  our  way  in  this  life,  except  for  the  pleasure  of  yield- 
ing to  them.  As  for  me,  I’m  a stoic  when  there’s  nothing  to  be 
had;  but,  let  me  get  a scent  of  a well-kept  haunch,  the  odor  of  a 
wine-bin  once  in  my  nose,  I forget  everything  except  appropria- 
tion. That  bone  smells  deliciously,  Charley;  a little  garlic  would 
improve  it  vastly. 

“ Our  road  lay  through  cross  paths  and  mountain  tracks — for 
the  French  were  scouring  the  country  on  every  side — and  my 
fellows,  only  twenty  altogether,  trembled  at  the  very  name  of 
them;  so  that  our  only  chance  was  to  avoid  falling  in  with  any 
forage  parties.  V^e  journeyed  along  for  several  days,  rarely 
making  more  than  a -few  leagues  between  sunrise  and  sunset,  a 
scout  always  in  advance  to  assure  us  that  all  was  safe.  The 
road  was  a lonesome  one,  and  the  way  weary — for  I had  no  one  to 
speak  to  or  converse  with — so  I fell  into  a kind  of  musing  fit  about 
the  old  wine  in  the  great  brown  casks;  I thought  on  its  luscious 
flavor,  its  rich  straw  tint,  its  oily  look  as  it  flowed  into  the  glass, 
the  mellow  after -taste,  warming  the  heart  as  it  went  down,  and 
I absolutely  thought  I could  smell  it  through  the  cask. 

“ How  I longed  to  broach  one  of  them,  if  it  were  only  to  seei 
if  my  dreams  about  it  were  correct;  may  be  it’s  brown  sherry, ' 
thought  I,  and  I am  all  wrong.  This  was  a very  distressing  re-  j 
flection;  I mentioned  it  to  the  Portuguese  intend  ant,  who  trav- 
eled with  us  as  a kind  of  supercargo;  but  the  villain  only 
grinned,  and  said  something  about  the  Junta  and  the  galleys  for 
life;  so  I did  not  recur  to  it  afterward.  Well,  it  was  upon  the 
third  evening  of  our  march  that  the  scout  reported  that  at 
Merida,  about  a league  distant,  he  had  fallen  in  with  an  English 
cavalry  regiment,  who  were  on  their  march  to  the  northern 
jirovinces,  and  remaining  that  night  in  the  village.  As  soon, 
therefore,  as  I had  made  all  my  arrangements  for  the  night,  I 
took  a fresh  horse,  and  cantered  over  to  have  a look  at  my 
countrymen  and  hear  the  news.  When  I arrived  it  was  dark 
night;  but  I was  not  long  in  finding  out  our  fellows;  they  were 
the  11th  Light  Dragoons,  commanded  by  my  old  friend  Bowes, 
and  with  as  jolly  a mess  as  any  in  the  service. 


m 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY, 


Before  half  an  hour’s  time  I was  in  the  midst  of  them,  hear- 
ing all  about  the  campaign,  and  telling  them  in  return  about  my 
convoy — dilating  upon  the  qualities  of  the  wine  as  if  I had  been 
drinking  it  every  day  at  dinner. 

“We  had  a very  mellow  night  of  it,  and  before  four  o’clock 
the  senior  major,  and  four  captains,  were  under  the  table,  and 
all  the  subs  in  a state  unprovided  for  by  the  articles  of  war.  So 
1 thought  I’d  be  going,  and  wishing  the  sober  ones  a good-bye, 
set  out  on  my  road  to  join  my  own  party. 

‘ ‘ I had  not  gone  above  a hundred  yards  when  I heard  some 
one  running  after,  and  calling  out  my  name. 

“ ‘ I say,  Monsoon!  Major!  confound  you,  pull  up.’ 

“ ‘ Well,  what  is  the  matter?  has  any  more  lush  turned  up?’ 
inquired  I,-  for  we  had  drank  the  tap  dry  when  I left. 

“‘Not  a drop,  old  fellow,’ said  he;  ‘but  I was  thinking  of 
what  you’ve  been  saying  about  that  sherry.’ 

“ ‘ Well!  what  then?’ 

“ ‘ Why,  I want  to  know  how  we  could  get  a taste  of  it.’ 

“ ‘You’d  better  get  elected  one  of  the  Cortes,’  said  I,  laughing; 
‘ for  it  does  not  seem  likely  you’ll  do  so  in  any  other  way.’ 

“ ‘ I’m  not  so  sure  of  that,’  said  he,  smiling.  ‘ What  road  do 
you  travel  to-morrow  ?’ 

“ ‘ By  Cavalhos  andEeina.’ 

“ ‘ Whereabouts  may  you  happen  to  be  toward  sunset?’ 

‘“I  fear  we  shall  be  in  the  mountains,’  said  I,  with  a knowing 
look,  ‘ where  ambuscades  and  surprise  parties  would  be  highly 
dangerous.’ 

“ ‘ And  your  party  consists  of ?’ 

“‘About  twenty  Portuguese,  all  ready  ’to  run  at  the  first 
shot.’ 

“ ‘ I’ll  do  it,  Monsoon!  I’ll  be  hanged  If  I don’t.’ 

“‘But,  Tom,’  said  I,  ‘don’t  make  any  blunder;  only  blank 
cartridge,  my  boy.’ 

“‘Honor  bright!’  cried  he;  ‘your  fellows  are  armed,  of 
course  ?’ 

“ ‘ Never  think  of  that;  they  may  shoot  each  other  in  the  con- 
fusion; but,  if  you  only  make  plenty  of  noise  coming  on,  they’ll 
never  wait  for  you.’ 

“ ‘ What  capital  fellows  they  must  be!’ 

“ ‘Crack  troops,  Tom;  so  don’t  hurt  them;  and  now  good- 
night.’ 

“ As  I cantered  off , I began  to  think  over  O’Flaherty ’s  idea, 
and,  upon  my  life,  I didn’t  half  like  it;  he  was  a reckless,  devil- 
may-care  fellow,  and  it  was  just  as  likely  he  would  really  put 
his  scheme  into  practice. 

“When  morning  broke,  however,  we  got  underway  again, 
and  I amused  myself  all  the  forenoon  in  detailing  stories  of 
French  cruelty,  so  that  before  we  had  marched  ten  miles,  there 
was  not  a man  amongst  us  not  ready  to  run  at  the  slightest 
sound  of  attack  on  any  side.  As  evening  was  falling  we  reach- 
ed Morento,  a little  mountain  pass  which  follows  the  course  of 
a small  river,  and  where  in  many  places  the  mule-carts  had 
barely  space  enough  to  pass  between  the  cliffs  and  the  stream. 


CHARLES  OMALLET. 


285 


What  a place  for  Tom  O’Flaherty  and  his  foragers!  thought  I, 
as  we  entered  the  little  mountain  gorge;  but  all  was  silent  as 
the  grave;  except  the  tramp  of  our  party,  not  a sound  was 
heard,  'ihere  was  something  solemn  and  still  in  the  green 
brown  mountain,  rising  like  vast  walls  on  either  side,  with  a 
narrow  streak  of  gray  sky  at  top,  and  in  the  dark,  sluggish 
stream,  that  seemed  to  awe  us,  and  no  one  spoke;  the  muleteer 
ceased  his  merry  song,  and  did  not  crack  or  flourish  his  long 
whip  as  before,  but  chid  his  beasts  in  a half-muttered  voice,  and 
urged  them  faster,  to  reach  the  village  before  night-fall. 

Egad,  somehow,  I felt  uncommonly  uncomfortable.  I could 
not  divest  my  mind  of  the  impression  that  some  disaster  was 
impending,  and  I wished  O’Flaherty  and  his  project  in  a very 
warm  climate.  He’ll  attack  us,  thought  I,  where  we  can’t  run; 
fair  play  forever;  but  if  they  are  not  able  to  get  away,  even  the 
militia  will  fight.  However,  the  evening  crept  on,  and  no  sign 
of  his  coming  appeared  on  any  side,  and  to  my  sincere  satisfac- 
tion I could  see,  about  half  a league  distant,  the  twinkling  light 
of  the  little  village  where  we  were  to  halt  for  the  night.  It  was 
just  at  this  time  that  a scout  I had  sent  out  some  few  hundred 
yards  in  advance,  came  galloping  up,  almost  breathless. 

“ ‘ The  French,  captain;  the  French  are  upon  usl’  said  he,  with 
a face  like  a ghost. 

“‘Whew!  which  way?  how  many?’  said  I,  not  at  all  sure 
that  he  might  not  be  telling  the  truth. 

“‘Coming  in  force,’  said  the  fellow.  ‘Dragoons!  by  this 
road.’ 

“ ‘ Dragoons  ! by  this  road  !’  repeated  every  man  of  the  party, 
looking  at  each  other  like  men  sentenced  to  be  hanged. 

“ Scarcely  had  they  spoken,  when  we  heard  the  distant  noise 
of  cavalry  advancing  at  a brisk  trot.  Lord,  what  a scene  en- 
sued; the  soldiers  ran  hither  and  thither  like  frightened  sheep; 
some  pulled  out  crucifixes  and  began  to  say  their  prayers; 
others  fired  off  their  muskets  in  a panic;  the  mule-drivers  cut 
their  traces,  and  endeavored  to  get  away  by  riding;  and  the  in- 
tendant  took  to  his  heels,  screaming  out  to  us,  as  he  went,  to 
fight  manfully  to  the  last,  and  that  he’d  report  us  favorably  to 
the  junta. 

“ Just  at  this  moment  the  dragoons  came  in  sight;  they  came 
galloping  up,  shouting  like  madmen.  One  look  was  enough  for 
my  fellows;  they  sprang  to  their  legs  from  their  devotions;  fired 
a volley  straight  at  the  new  moon,  and  ran  like  men. 

“I  was  knocked  down  in  the  rush;  as  I regained  my  legs, 
Tom  O’Flaherty  was  standing  beside  me,  laughing  like  mad. 

“ ‘Eh,  Monsoon!  I’ve  kept  my  word,  old  fellow!  What  legs 
they  have!  we  shall  make  no  prisoners,  that’s  certain.  Now, 
lads,  here  it  is!  put  the  horses  to — here.  We  shall  take  but  one. 
Monsoon,  so  that  your  gallant  defense  of  the  rest  will  please 
the  junta.  Good-night;  good-night!  I will  drink  your  health 
every  night  these  two  months.’ 

“So  saying,  Tom  sprang  to  his  saddle,  and  in  less  time  than 
I’ve  been  telling  it,  the  whole  was  over,  and  I was  sitting  by 
myself  in  the  gray  moonlight,  meditating  on  all  I saw,  and 


286 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


now  and  then  shouting  for  mj  Portuguese  to  come  back  again. 
They  came  in  time  by  twos  and  threes,  and,  at  last  the  whole 
party  re-assembled,  and  we  set  forth  again — every  man  from 
the  intendant  to  the  drummer  lauding  my  valor,  and  saying 
that  Don  Monsoon  was  a match  for  the  Cid.” 

And  how  did  the  junta  behave?” 

“Like  trumps,  Charley.  Made  me  a Knight  of  Battalha,  and 
kissed  me  on  both  cheeks,  having  sent,  twelve  dozen  of  the  res- 
cued wine  to  my  quarters,  as  a small  testimony  of  their  esteem. 
I have  laughed  very  often  at  it  since.  But,  hush!  Charley. 
What’s  that  I hear  without  there  ?” 

“ Oh,  it’s  my  fellow.  Mike.  He  asked  my  leave  to  entertain 
his  friends  before  parting,  and  I perceive  he  is  deligliting  them 
with  a song.” 

“ But  what  a confounded  air  it  is;  are  the  words  Hebrew  ?” 

“ Irish,  Major;  most  classical  Irish,  too,  I’ll  be  bound.” 

“ Irish!  I’ve  heard  most  tongues,  but  that  certainly  surprises 
me.  Call  him  in,  Charley,  and  let  us  have  the  canticle.” 

In  a few  minutes  more,  Mr.  Free  appeared  in  a state  of  very 
satisfactory  elevation,  his  eyebrows  alternately  rising  and  falling, 
his  mouth  a little  drawn  to  one  side,  and  a side  motion  in  his 
knee-joints  that  might  puzzle  a physiologist  to  account  for. 

“ A very  sweet  little  song  of  yours,  Mike,”  said  the  Major;  “ a 
very  sweet  thing,  indeed.  Wet  your  lips,  Mickey.” 

“ Long  life  to  your  honor  and  Master  Charles  there,  too,  and 
them  that  belongs  to  both  of  yer.  May  a gooseberry  skin  make 
a nightcap  for  the  man  would  harm  either  of  yer.” 

“Thank you,  Mike.  And  now  about  that  song?” 

“ It’s  the  ouldest  tune  ever  was  sung,”  said  Milce,  with  a hic- 
cough, “ barring  Adam  had  a taste  for  music;  but  the  words — 
the  poethry  is  not  so  ould.” 

“ And  how  comes  that?” 

“ The  poethry,  ye  see,  was  put  to  it  by  one  of  my  ancesthors-, 
he  was  a great  in venth or  in  times  past,  and  made  beautiful  songs; 
and  ye'd  never  guess  what  it’s  all  about.” 

“Love,  mayhap?”  quoth  Monsoon. 

“ Sorry  taste  of  kissing  from  beginning  to  end.” 

“A  drinking  song?”  said  I. 

“ Whiskey  is  never  mentioned.” 

“ Fighting  is  the  only  other  national  pastime.  It  must  be  in 
praise  of  sudden  death?” 

“ You’re  out  again;  but,  sure,  you’d  niwer  guess  it,”  said  Mike. 
“ Well,  ye  see,  here’s  what  it  is.  It’s  the  praise  and  glory  of  old 
Ireland  in  the  great  days  that’s  gone,  when  we  w^ere  all  Phenay- 
cians  and  Armenians,  and  when  we  worked  all  manner  of  beau- 
tiful contrivances  in  gooid  and  silver;  bracelets,  and  collars,  and 
tea-pots,  elegant  to  look  at;  and  read  Eoosian  and  Latin,  and 
played  the  harp  and  the  barrel-organ,  and  eat  and  drank  of  the 
best,  for  nothing  but  asking.” 

“ Blessed  times,  upon  my  life,”  quoth  the  Major.  “ 1 wish  we 
had  them  back  again.” 

“There’s  more  of  your  mind,”  said  Mike,  steadying  himself. 
“ My  ancesthors  was  great  people  in  them  days;  and  sure  it  isn’t 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


287* 


in  my  present  situation  I’d  be,  av  we  had  them  back  again; 
sorra  bit,  faith!  It  isn’t,  come  here,  Micky — bad  luck  to  you, 
Mike— or  that  blackguard,  Mickey  Free — people’d  be  calling  me. 
But,  no  matter.  Here’s  your  health  again,  Major  Monsoon ’’ 

“Never  mind  vain  regrets,  Mike.  Let  us  hear  your  song; 
the  Major  has  taken  a great  fancy  to  it.” 

“Ah,  then,  it’s  joking  you  are.  Mister  Charles,”  said  Mike, 
affecting  an  air  of  most  bashful  coyness. 

“ By  no  means.  We  want  to  hear  you  sing  it.” 

“ To  be  sure  we  do.  Sing  it,  by  all  means.  Never  be  ashamed* 
King  David  was  very  fond  of  singing;  upon  my  life  he  was.” 

“ But  you’d  never  understand  a word  of  it,  sir.” 

“ No  matter;  we  know  what  it’s  about.  That's  the  way  with 
the  Legion;  they  don’t  know  much  English,  but  they  generally 
guess  what  I’m  at.” 

This  argument  seemed  to  satisfy  all  Mike’s  remaining  scruples; 
so,  placing  himself  in  an  attitude  of  considerable  pretensions  as 
to  grace,  he  began,  with  a voice  of  no  very  measured  compass, 
an  air  of  which,  neither  by  name  or  otherwise,  can  I give  any 
conception — my  principal  amusement  being  derived  from  a tol 
de  rol  chorus  of  the  Major,  which  concluded  each  verse,  and 
indeed,  in  a lower  key,  accompanied  the^singer  throughout. 

Since  that,  I have  succeeded  in  obtaining  a free-and-easy  trans- 
lation of  the  lyric;  but,  in  my  anxiety  to  preserve  the  meter  and 
something  of  the  spirit  of  the  original,  I have  made  several 
blunders  and  many  anachronisms;  Mr.  Free,  however,  pro- 
nounces my  version  a good  one,  and  the  world  must  take  his 
word  till  some  more  worthy  translator  shall  have  consigned  L 
to  immortal  verse. 

With  this  apology,  therefore,  I present  Mr.  Free’s  song. 

“na  gulloch  y’  goulen. 

“Oh!  once  we  were  illegant  people, 

Though  we  now  live  in  cabins  of  mud, 

And  the  land  that  ye  see  from  the  steeple 
Belonged  to  us  all  from  the  flood. 

My  father  was  then  king  of  Connaught, 

My  grandaunt  viceroy  of  Tralee; 

But  the  Sassenach  came,  and,  signs  on  it! 

The  devil  an  acre  have  we. 

“The  least  of  us  then  were  p11  earls. 

And  jewels  we  wore  without  name; 

We  drank  punch  out  of  rubies  and  pearls — 

Mr.  Petrie  can  tell  you  the  same. 

But,  except  some  turf  mold  and  potatoes, 

There’s  nothing  our  own  we  can  call; 

And  the  English — bad  luck  to  them!— hate  us, 

Because  we’ve  more  fun  than  them  all! 

“ My  grandaunt  was  niece  to  St.  Kevin, 

That’s  the  reason  my  name’s  Mickey  Free! 

Priest’s  nieces — but  sure  he’s  in  Heaven, 

And  his  failin’s  is  nothin’ 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


m 

And  we  still  might  get  on  without  doctors, 

If  they’d  let  the  ould  island  alone, 

And  if  purple  men,  priests,  and  tithe-proctors, 

Were  crammed  down  the  great  gun  of  Athlone.” 

As  Mike’s  melody  proceeded,  the  Major’s  thorough  bass  waxed 
beautifully  less;  now  and  then,  it’s  true,  roused  by  some  mo- 
mentary strain,  it  swelled  upward  in  full  chorus;  but  gradually 
these  passing  flights  grew  rarer,  and  finally  all  ceased,  save  a 
long,  low,  droning  sound,  like  the  expiring  sigh  of  a wearied 
bagpipe.  His  fingers  still  continued  mechanically  to  beat  time 
upon  the  table,  and  still  his  head  nodded  sympathetically  to  the 
music;  his  eyelids  closed  in  sleep,  and,  as  the  last  verse  con- 
cluded, a full-drawn  snore  announced  that  Monsoon,  if  not  in 
the  land  of  dreams,  was,  at  least,  in  a happy  oblivion  of  all  ter- 
restrial concerns,  and  caring  as  little  for  the  woes  of  green  Erin 
and  the  altered  fortunes  of  the  Free  family  as  any  Saxon  that 
ever  oppressed  them. 

There  he  sat,  the  finished  decanter  and  empty  goblet  testify- 
ing that  his  labors  had  only  ceased  from  the  pressure  of  neces- 
sity; but  the  broken,  half-uttered  words  that  fell  from  his  lips 
evinced  that  he  reposed  on  the  last  bottle  of  the  series. 

“Oh,  thin!  he’s  a fine  ould  gentleman,”  said  Mike,  after  a 
pause  of  some  niinutes,  during  which  he  had  been  contemplating 
the  Major  with  all  the  critical  acumen  Chantry  or  Canova  would 
have  bestowed  upon  an  antique  statue:  “ A fine  ould  gentleman, 
every  inch  of  him;  and  it’s  the  master  would  like  to  have  him  up 
at  the  castJe.” 

“ Quite  true,  Mike;  but  let  us  not  forget  the  road.  Look  to  the 
cattle,  and  be  ready  to  start  within  an  hour.” 

When  he  left  the  room  for  this  purpose,  I endeavored  to  shake 
the  Major  into  momentary  consciousness  ere  we  parted. 

“ Major,  Major,”  said  I,  “ time  is  up.  I must  start.” 

“Yet,  it’s  all  true,  your  Excellency;  they  pillaged  a little;  and 
if  they  did  change  their  facings,  there  was  a great  temptation 

All  the  red  velvet  they  found  in  the  churches ” 

* “Good-bye,  old  fellow,  good-bye!” 

“ Stand  at  ease!” 

“ Can’t,  unfortunately,  yet  awhile;  so  farewell.  I’ll  make  a 
capital  report  of  the  legion  to  Sir  Arthur;  shall  T add  anything 
particularly  from  yourself  ?” 

This,  and  the  shake  that  accompanied  it,  aroused  him;  he 
started  up,  and  looked  about  him  for  a few  seconds. 

“Eh,  Charley!  You  didn’t  say  Sir  Arthur  was  here,  did 
you  ?” 

“ No,  Major,  don’t  be  frightened;  he’s  many  a league  off.  I 
asked  if  you  had  anything  to  say  when  I met  him  ?” 

“ Oh,  yes,  Charley.  Tell  him  we’re  capital  troops  in  our  own 
little  way  in  the  mountains;  would  never  do  in  pitch  battles; 
skirmishing’s  our  forte;  and,  for  cutting  off  stragglers  or  sacking 
a town,  back  them  at  any  odds.” 

“ Yes,  yes,  I know  all  that;  you’ve  nothing  more  ?” 

“Nothing,”  said  he,  once  more  closing  Jus  eyes  and  crossing 
his  hands  before  him,  while  his  lips  continued  to  mutter  on. 


CHARLES  CMALLEY, 


289 


nothing  more,  except  you  may  say  from  me — he  knows  me, 
Sir  Arthur  does.  Tell  him  to  guard  himself  from  intemperance; 
a fine  fellow  if  he  wouldn’t  drink.” 

“ You  horrid  old  hunabug,  what  nonsense  are  you  muttering 
there?”  ^ 

“ Yes,  yes;  Solomon  says,  who  hath  red  eyes,  and  carbuncles 
— they  that  mix  their  lush.  Pure  sneyd  never  injured  any  one. 
Tell  him  so  from  me;  it’s  an  old  man’s  advice,  and  I have  drunk 
some  hogsheads  of  it.” 

With  these  words  he  ceased  to  speak,  while  his  head,  falling 
gently  forward  upon  his  chest,  proclaimed  him  sound  asleep. 

“ AdieuI  then,  for  the  last  time,”  said  I,  slapping  him  gently 
on  the  shoulder;  “ and  now  for  the  road.” 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

CUESTA. 

The  second  day  of  our  journey  was  drawing  to  a close  as  we 
came  in  view  of  the  Spanish  army. 

The  position  they  occupied  w^as  an  undulating  plain  beside 
the  Teitar  river;  the  country  presented  no  striking  feature  of 
picturesque  beauty;  but  the  scene  before  us  needed  no  such  aid 
to  make  it  one  of  the  most  interesting  kind.  From  the  little 
mountain  path  we  traveled  we  beheld  beneath  a force  of  thirty 
thousand  men  drawn  up  in  battle  array;  dense  columns  of  in- 
fantry, alternating  with  squadrons  of  horse  or  dark  masses  of 
artillery,  dotted  the  wide  plain,  the  bright  steel  glittering  in  the 
rich  sunset  of  a July  evening,  when  not  a breath  of  air  was  stir- 
ring; the  very  banners  hung  down  listlessly,  and  not  a sound 
broke  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  hour.  All  was  silent;  so  impres- 
sive and  so  strange  was  the  spectacle  of  a vast  army  thus  resting 
mutely  under  arms,  that  I reined  in  my  horse,  and  almost  doubted 
the  reality  of  the  scene  as  I gazed  upon  it.  The  dark  shadows  of 
the  tall  mountain  were  falling  across  the  valley,  and  a stariy 
sky  was  already  replacing  the  ruddy  glow  of  sunset  as  we 
reached  the  plain;  but  still  no  change  took  place  in  the  position 
of  the  Spanish  army. 

“ Who  goes  there  ?”  cried  a hoarse  voice,  as  we  issued  from 
the  mountain  gorge,  and  in  a moment  we  found  ourselves  sur- 
rounded by  an  outpost  party.  Having  explained,  as  well  as  I 
was  able,  who  I was  and  for  what  reason  I was  there,  I pro- 
ceeded  to  accompany  the  officer  toward  the  camjj. 

On  my  way  thither  I learned  the  reason  of  the  singular  display 
of  troops  which  had  been  so  puzzling  to  me.  From  an  early 
hour  of  that  day  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley’s  arrival  had  been  ex- 
pected, and  old  Cuesta  had  drawn  up  his  men  for  inspection,  and 
remained  thus  for  several  hours  patiently  awaiting  his  coming; 
he  himself,  overwhelmed  with  y«ars  and  infirmity,  sitting  upon 
his  horse  the  entire  time. 

As  it  was  not  necessary  that  I should  be  presented  to  the 
General,  my  report  being  for  the  ear  of  Sir  Arthur  himself,  I 
willingly  availed  myself  of  the  hospitality  proffered  by  aSpanish 
officer  of  cavalry,  and,  having  provided  for  the  comforts  of  my 


290 


CHARLES  OMALLEY, 

tired  cattle  and  taken  a hasty  supper,  issued  forth  to  look  at  the 
troops,  which,  although  it  was  now  growing  late,  were  still  in 
the  same  attitude. 

Scarcely  had  1 been  half  an  hour  thps  occupied,  when  the 
stillness  of  the  scene  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  loud  re- 
port of  a large  gun,  immediately  followed  by  a long  roll  of  mus- 
ketry, while,  at  the  same  moment,  the  bands  of  the  different 
regiments  struck  up;  and,  as  if  by  magic,  a blaze  of  red  hght 
streamed  across  the  dark  ranks;  this  was  effected  by  pine  torches, 
held  aloft  at  intervals,  throwing  a lurid  glow  upon  the  grim  and 
swarthy  features  of  the  Spaniards,  whose  brown  uniforms  and 
sloucliing  hats  presented  a most  picturesque  effect  as  the  red 
light  fell  upon  them. 

The  swell  of  the  thundering  cannon  grew  louder  and  nearer; 
the  shouldering  of  muskets,  the  clash  of  sabers,  and  the  hoarse 
roll  of  the  drum  mingling  in  one  common  din.  I at  once  guessed 
that  Sir  Arthur  had  arrived,  and,  as  I turned  the  flank  of  a bat- 
talion, [ saw  the  staff  approaching. 

Nothing  can  be  conceived  more  striking  than  their  advance. 
In  the  front  rode  old  Cuesta  liimself,  clad  in  the  costume  of  a 
past  century!  his  slashed  doublet  and  trunk-hose  reminding  one 
of  a more  chivalrous  period;  his  heavy,  unwieldy  figure  looming 
from  side  to  side,  and  threatening  at  each  moment  to  fall  from  his 
saddle.  On  each  side  of  him  w^alked  two  figures  gorgeously 
dressed,  whose  duty  appeared  to  be  to  sustain  the  chief  in  his  seat. 
At  his  side  rode  afar  different  figure;  mounted  upon  a slight- 
made  active  thoroughbred,  whose  drawn  flanks  bespoke  a long 
and  weary  journey,  sat  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley,  a plain  blue  frock 
ind  gray  trousers  being  his  unpretending  costume;  but  the  eagle 
glance  which  he  threw  around  on  every  side,  tlie  quick  motion 
^f  his  hand -as  he  pointed  hither  and  thither  among  the  dense 
battalions  bespoke  him  every  inch  a soldier.  Behind  them  came 
a brilliant  staff,  glittering  in  aiguilettes  and  golden  trappings, 
among  whom  1 recognized  some  well-remembered  faces;  our 
gallai^t  leader  at  the  Douro,  Sir  Charles  Stewart,  among  the 
number. 

As  they  passed  the  spot  where  I was  standing  the  torch  of  a 
foot  soldier  behind  me  flared  suddenly  out  and  threw  a strong 
flas^  upon  the  party.  Cuesta’s  horse  grew  frightened,  and 
plunged  so  fearfully  for  a minute  that  the  poor  old  man  could 
scarcely  keep  his  seat.  A smile  shot  across  Sir  Arthur’s  features 
a-t  the  moment;  but  the  next  instant  he  was  grave  and  steadfast 
as  before. 

A wretched  hovel,  thatched  and  in  ruins,  forms  the  headquar- 
ters of  the  Spanish  army,  and  thither  the  staff  now  bent  their 
steps;  a supper  being  provided  thej*e  for  our  Commander-in- 
Chief  and  the  officers  of  his  suite.  Although  not  of  the 
privileged  party,  I lingered  round  the  spot  for  some  time, 
anxiously  expecting  to  And  some  friend  or  acquaintance  who 
might  tell  me  the  news  of  our  people,  and  what  events  had  oc- 
curred in  my  absence. 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


m 


CHAPTEE  LVIII. 

THE  LETTER 

The  hours  passed  slowly  over  and  I at  length  grew  weary  of 
waiting.  For  some  time  I had  amused  myself  with  observing 
the  slouching  gait  and  unsoldierlike  air  of  the  Spaniards,  as  they 
lounged  carelessly  about;  looking  in  dress,  gesture,  and  appoint- 
ment far  more  like  a guerrilla  than  a regular  force;  then  again, 
the  strange  contrast  of  the  miserable  hut  with  falling  chimney 
and  ruined  walls,  to  the  glitter  of  the  mounted  guard  of  honor 
who  sat  motionless  beside  it,  served  to  pass  the  time;  but  as  the 
night  was  already  far  advanced  I turned  toward  my  quarters, 
ho])ing  that  the  next  morning  might  gratify  my  curiosity  about 
my  friends. 

Beside  the  tent  where  I was  billeted  I found  Mike  in  waiting, 
who,  the  moment  he  saw  me,  came  hastily  forward  with  a letter 
in  his  hand.  An  officer  of  Sir  Arthur’s  staff  had  left  it  while  I 
was  absent,  desiring  Mike  on  no  account  to  omit  its  delivery  the 
first  instant  he  met  me.  The  hand — not  a very  legible  one — 
was  perfectly  unknown  to  me,  and  the  appearance  of  the  billet 
such  as  betrayed  no  over-scrupulous  care  in  the  writer^ 

I trimmed  my  lamp  leisurely,  threw  a fresh  log  upon  the  fire, 
disposed  myself  completely  at  full  length  beside  it,  and  then 
proceeded  to  form  acquaintance  with  my  unknown  correspond- 
ent. I will  not  attempt  any  description  of  the  feelings  which 
gradually  filled  me  as  I read  on.  The  letter  itself  will  suggest 
them  to  those  who  know  my  story.  It  ran  thus: 

‘‘Placentia,  July  8th,  1809. 

“Dear  O’Malley, — Although  I’d  rather  march  to  Lisbon 
barefoot  than  write  three  lines,  Fred  Power  insists  upon  my 
turning  scribe,  as  he  has  a notion  you’ll  be  up  at  Cuesta’s  head- 
quarters about  this  time.  You’re  in  a nice  scrape,  devil  a lie  in 
it  I here  has  Fred  been  fighting  that  fellow  Trevy  Ilian  for  you; 
all  because  you  would  not  have  patience  and  fight  him  yourself 
the  morning  you  left  the  Douro.  So  much  for  haste;  let  it  be  a 
lesson  to  you  all  your  life. 

“ Poor  Fred  got  the  ball  in  his  hip,  and  the  devil  a one  of  the 
doctors  can  find  it;  but  he’s  getting  better,  anyway,  and  going 
to  Lisbon  for  change  of  air.  Meanwhile,  since  Power’s  been 
wounded,  Trevy  Ilian’s  been  speaking  very  hardly  of  you,  and 
they  all  say  here  you  must  come  back — no  matter  how — and  put 
matters  to  rights.  Fred  has  placed  the  thing  in  my  hands,  and  I’m 
thinking  we’d  better  call  out  the  ‘ heavies’  by  turns;  for  most  of 
them  stand  by  Trevyllian.  Maurice  Quill  and  myself  sat  up 
considering  it  last  night;  but,  somehow,  we  don’t  clearly  remem- 
ber to-day  a beautiful  plan  we  hit  upon;  however,  we’ll  have  at 
it  again  this  evening.  Meanwhile,  come  over  here,  and  let  us  be 
doing  something.  We  hear  that  old  Monsoon  has  blown  up  a 
town,  a bridge,  ana  a big  convent;  they  must  have  been  hiding  the 
plunder  very  closely,  or  he’d  never  have  been  reduced  to  such 
extremities.  We’ll  have  a brush  with  the  French  soon. 

“ Yours  most  eagerly, 

“ S.  O’Shaughnessy,” 


992 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


My  first  thought,  as  I ran  my  eye  over  these  lines,  was  to  seek 
for  Power’s  note  written  on  the  morning  we  parted.  I opened 
it,  and  to  my  horror  found  that  it  only  related  to  my  quarrel 
with  Hammersly.  My  meeting  with  Trevyllian  had  been  dur- 
ing Fred’s  absence,  and,  when  he  assured  me  that  all  was  sat- 
isfactorily arranged,  and  full  explanations  tendered;  that  noth 
ing  interfered  with  my  departure,  I utterly  forgot  tliat  he  was 
only  aware  of  one-half  my  troubles;  and,  in  the  haste  and  bustle 
of  .my  departure,  had  not  a moment  left  to  collect  myself  and 
think  calmly  on  the  matter.  The  two  letters  lay  before  me,  and 
as  I thought  over  the  stain  upon  my  character  thus  unwittingly 
incurred — the  blast  I have  thrown  upon  my  reputation,  the 
wound  of  my  poor  friend,  who  exposed  himself  for  my  sake — I 
grew  sick  at  heart,  and  bitter  tears  of  agony  burst  from  my 
eyes. 

That  weary  night  passed  slowly  over;  the  blight  of  all  my 
prospects,  when  they  seemed  fairest  and  brightest,  presented 
itself  to  me  in  a hundred  shapes;  and  when,  overcome  by  fatigue 
and  exhaustion,  I closed  my  eyes  to  sleep,  it  was  only  to  follow 
up  in  my  dreams  my  waking  thoughts.  Morning  came  at 
length;  biit  its  bright  sunshine  and  balmy  air  brought  no  com- 
fort to  me;  I absolutely  dreaded  to  meet  my  brother  officers;  I 
felt  that,  in  such  a position  as  I stood,  no  half  or  partial  explan- 
ation could  suffice  to  set  me  right  in  their  estimation;  and  yet, 
what  opportunity  had  I for  aught  else  ? Irresolute  how  to  act, 
I sat  leaning  my  head  upon  my  hands,  when  I heard  a footstep 
approach;  I looked  up,  and  saw  before  me  no  other  than  my 
poor  friend  Sparks,  from  whom  I had  been  separated  so  long. 
Any  other  adviser  at  such  a moment,  would,  I acknowledge,  have 
been  as  welcome,  for  the  poor  fellow  knew  but  little  of  the 
world,  and  still  less  of  the  service.  However,  one  glance  con- 
vinced me  that  his  heart,  at  least,  was  true,  and  I shook  his  out- 
stretched hand  with  delight.  In  a few  words,  he  informed  me 
that  Merivale  had  secretly  commissioned  him  to  come  over,  in 
the  hope  of  meeting  me;  that,  although  all  the  14th  men  were 
persuaded  that  I was  not  to  blame  in  what  had  occurred ; yet, 
that  reports  so  injurious  had  gone  abroad,  so  many  partial  and 
imperfect  statements  were  circulated,  that  nothing  but  my 
return  to  headquarters  would  avail,  and  that  I must  not  lose  a 
moment  in  having  Trevyllian  out,  with  whom  aU  the  misrepre- 
sentation had  originated. 

“This,  of  course,”  said  Sparks,  “is  to  be  a secret,  Merivale 
being  our  Colonel ” 

“Of  course,”  said  I,  “he  cannot  countenance,  much  less 
counsel,  such  a proceeding.  Now,  then,  for  the  road.” 

“Yes;  but  you  cannot  leave  before  making  your  report. 
Gordon  expects  to  see  you  at  eleven;  he  told  me  so  last  night.” 

“I  cannot  help  it.  I shall  not  wait;  my  mind  is  made  up. 
My  career  here  matters  but  little  in  comparison  with  this  horrid 
charge.  I shall  be  broke,  but  I shall  be  avenged.” 

‘ ‘ Come,  come,  O’Malley : you  are  in  our  hands  now,  and  you 
must  be  guided.  You  shall  wait;  you  shall  see  Gordon;  half  an 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


293 


Lour  will  triake  your  report,  and  I have  relays  of  horses  along 
the  road,  and  we  shall  reach  Placentia  by  nightfall.” 

There  was  a tone  of  firmness  in  this,  so  unlike  anything  I 
ever  lool^ed  for  in  the  speaker,  and  withal  so  much  foresight  and 
precaution  that  I could  scarcely  credit  my  senses  as  he  spoke. 
Having,  at  length,  agreed  to  his  proposal,  Sparks  left  me  to 
think  over  my  return  of  the  legion,  promising  that,  immediately 
after  my  interview  with  the  military  secretary,  we  should  start 
together  for  headquarters. 


CHAPTEE  LIX. 

MAJOR  O'SHAUGHNESSY. 

“ This  is  Major  O'Shaughnessy’s  quarters,  sir,”  said  a sergeant, 
as  he  stopped  short  at  the  door  of  a small,  low  house  in  the 
midst  of  an  olive  plantation;  an  Irish  wolf-dog,  the  well-known 
companion  of  the  Major,  lay  stretched  across  the  entrance, 
watching  with  eager  and  bloodshot  eyes  the  process  of  the  cut- 
ting up  of  a bullock,  which  two  soldiers  in  undress  jackets  were 
performing  within  a few  yards  of  the  spot. 

Stepping  cautiously  across  the  savage-looking  sentinel,  I en- 
tered the  little  hall,  and,  finding  no  one  near,  passed  into  a 
small  room,  the  door  of  which  lay  half  open. 

A very  palpable  odor  of  cigars  and  brandy  proclaimed,  even 
without  his  presence,  that  it  was  O’Shaughnessy’s  sitting-room; 
so  I sat  myself  down  upon  an  old-fashioned  sofa  to  wait  patient- 
ly for  his  return,  which  I heard  would  be  immediately  after  the 
evening  parade.  Sparks  had  become  knocked  up  during  our 
ride;  so  that  for  the  last  three  leagues  I was  alone,  and,  like 
most  men  in  such  circumstances,  pressed  on  only  the  harder. 
Completely  worn  out  for  want  of  rest,  I had  scarcely  placed 
myself  on  the  sofa  when  I fell  sound  asleep.  When  I awoke, 
all  was  dark  around  me,  save  the  faint  flickering  of  the  wood- 
embers  on  the  hearth,  and,  for  some  moments,  I could  not  re- 
member where  I was;  but,  by  degrees,  recollection  came,  and, 
as  I thought  over  my  position  and  its  possible  consequences,  I 
was  again  nearly  dropping  to  sleep,  when  the  door  suddenly 
opened,  and  a heavy  step  sounded  on  the  floor. 

I lay  still  and  spoke  not,  as  a large  figure  in  a cloak  approached 
the  fire-place,  and,  stooping  down,  endeavored  to  light  a candle 
at  the  fast-expiring  fire. 

I had  little  difiiculty  in  detecting  the  Major,  even  by  the  half- 
light;  a muttered  execration  upon  the  candle,  given  with  an 
energy  that  only  an  Irishman  ever  bestovrs  upon  slight  matters, 
soon  satisfied  me  on  this  head. 

“ May  the  devil  fly  away  with  the  commissary  and  the  chand- 
ler to  the  forces!  Ah!  you’ve  lit  at  last.” 

With  these  words  he  stood  up,  and  his  ey^s  falling  on  me  at 
the  moment,  he  sprung  a yard  or  two  backward,  exclaiming  as 
he  did  so:  “ The  blessed  Virgin  be  near  us,  what’s  this?” — a most 
energetic  crossing  of  himself  accompanying  his  words;  my  pale 
and  haggard  face,  when  suddenly  presented  to  his,  having  sug- 
gested to  the  worthy  Major  the  impression  of  a supernatural 


294 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


visitor,  a hearty  burst  of  laughter,  which  I could  not  resist,  was 
my  only  answer;  and  the  next  moment  O’Shaughnessy  was 
wrenching  my  hand  in  a grasp  like  a steel  vise. 

“ Upon  my  conscience,  I thought  it  was  your  ghost;  and,  if 
you  had  kept  quiet  a minute  longer,  I was  going  to  promise  you 
a Christian  burial,  and  as  many  masses  for  you  soul  as  my  uncle 
the  bishop  could  say  between  this  and  Easter.  How  are  you,  my 
boy  ? — a little  thin  and  something  paler,  I think,  than  when  you 
left  us.” 

Having  assured  him  that  fatigue  and  hunger  were  in  a great 
measure  the  cause  of  my  sickly  looks,  the  Major  proceeded  to 
place  before  me  the  debris  of  his  day’s  dinner,  with  a sufficiency 
of  bottles  to  satisfy  a mess  table,  keeping  up  as  he  went  a run- 
ning fire  of  conversation. 

‘*I’m  as  glad  as  if  the  senior  major  were  in  Heaven,  to  see 
you  here  this  night.  With  the  blessing  of  Providence,  we'll 
shoot  Trevylhan  in  the  morning,  and  any  more  of  the  heavies 
that  like  it.  You  are  an  ill-treated  man,  that’s  what  it  is;  and 
Dan  O’Shaughnessy  says  it.  Help  yourself,  my  boy;  crusty  old 
port  in  that  bottle  as  ever  you  touched  your  lips  to.  Power’s 
getting  all  right.  It  was  contract  powder,  warranted  not  to 
kill.  Bad  luck  to  the  commissaries  once  morel  With  such  am- 
munition, Sir  Arthur  does  right  to  trust  most  to  the  bayonet. 
And  how  is  Monsoon,  the  old  rogue?*’ 

“ Gloriously;  living  in  the  midst  of  wine  and  olives.” 

“No  fear  of  him,  the  old  sinner;  but  he’s  a fine  fellow  after 
all;  Charley,  you  arc  eating  nothing,  nothing,  boy.” 

“ To  tell  you  the  truth,  Im  far  more  anxious  to  talk  with  you 
at  this  moment  than  aught  else.” 

“So  you  shall;  the  night’s  young.  Meanwhile,  I had  better 
not  delay  matters,  you  want  to  have  Trevylhan  out;  is  not  that 
so  ?” 

''Of  course,  you  are  aware  how  it  happened?” 

''  I know  everything.  Go  on  with  your  supper,  and  don’t 
mind  me;  ITl  be  back  in  twenty  minutes  or  less.” 

Without  waiting  for  any  reply,  he  once  more  threw  his  cloak 
around  him,  and  strode  out  of  the  room.  Once  more  I was 
alone;  but  already  my  frame  of  mind  was  altered;  the  cheering 
tone  of  my  reckless,  gallant  countryman  had  raised  my  spirits, 
and  I felt  animated  by  his  very  manner. 

An  hour  elapsed  before  the  Major  returned,  and  when  he  did 
come,  his  appearance  and  gestures  bespoke  anger  and  disappoint- 
ment. He  threw  himself  hurriedly  into  a seat,  and  for  some 
minutes  never  spoke. 

“The  world’s  beautifully  changed,  anyhow,  since  I began  it, 
O’Malley — when  you  thank  a man  civilly  that  asked  you  to  fight 
him;  the  devil  take  the  cowards,  say  I.” 

“ What  has  happened  ? tell  me,  I beseech  you!” 

“ He  won’t  fight,”  said  the  major,  blurting  out  the  words  as 
if  they  would  choke  him. 

“ He’ll  not  fight!  and  why?” 

The  Major  was  silent;  he  seemed  confused  and  embarrassed; 
turned  from  the  fire  to  the  table,  from  the  table  to  the  fire^ 


CHARLES  aUALLEY,  m 

filled  out  a glass  of  wine,  drank  it  hastily  off,  and  springing 
from  his  chair  paced  the  room  with  long,  impatient  strides. 

“My  dear  O’Shaughnessy,  explain,  I beg  of  you.  Does  ho 
refuse  to  meet  me  for  any  reason ’’ 

“ He  does,’’  said  the  Major,  turning  on  me  a look  of  deep  feel- 
ing as  he  spoke,  “ and  he  does  it  to  ruin  you,  my  boy;  but,  as 
sure  as  my  hame  is  Dan,  he’ll  fail  this  time.  He  was  sitting 
with  his  friend  Beaufort  when  I reached  liis  quarters,  and  re- 
ceived me  with  all  the  ceremonious  politeness  he  well  knows  how 
xo  assume,  I told  iiim  in  a few  words  the  object  of  my  visit,  upon 
which  Trevyilian,  standing  up,  referred  me  to  his  friend  for  a 
reply,  and  left  the  room.  I thought  that  all  was  right,  and  sat 
down  to  discuss,  as  I believed,  preliminaries,  when  the  cool 
puppy,  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  carelessly  lisped  out:  ‘It  can’t 
be.  Major;  your  friend  is  too  late.’ 

“ ‘ Too  latel  too  late  ?’  said  I. 

“‘Yes,  precisely  so;  not  up  to  time;  the  affair  should  have, 
come  off  some  six  weeks  since.  We  won’t  meet  him  now.’ 

“ ‘ This  is  really  your  answer  ?’ 

“ ‘ This  is  really  my  answer;  and  not  only  so,  but  the  decision 
of  our  mess.’ 

“ What  I said  after  this,  he  may  remember.  Devil  take  me  if 
I can;  but  I have  a vague  recollection  of  saying  something  the 
aforesaid  mess  will  never  petition  the  Horse  Guards  to  put  on 
their  regimental  colors;  and  here  I am ” 

With  these  words  the  Major  gulped  down  a full  goblet  of  wine, 
and  once  more  resumed  his  walk  through  the  room,  I shall  not 
attempt  to  record  the  feelings  which  agitated  me  during  the 
Major’s  recital.  In  one  rapid  glance  I saw  the  aim  of  my  vin- 
dictive enemy.  My  honor,  not  my  life,  was  the  object  he 
sought  for;  and  ten  thousand  times  more  than  ever  did  I pant 
for  the  opportunity  to  confront  him  in  a deadly  combat. 

“ Charley,”  said  O'Shaughnessy,  at  length,  placing  his  hand 
upon  my  shoulder,  “ you  must  go  to  bed  now— nothing  more  can 
be  done  to-night  in  my  way.  Be  assured  of  one  thing,  my  boy — 
I’ll  not  desert  you,  and  if  that  assurance  can  give  you  a sound 
sleep,  you’ll  not  need  a lullaby.”  i 


CHAPTER  LX.  f 

PRELIMINARIES. 

I AWOKE  refreshed  on  the  following  mc'rning,  and  came  down 
to  breakfast  with  a lighter  heart  than  I had  even  hoped  for;  a 
secret  feeling  that  all  would  go  well  had  somehow  taken  pos- 
session of  me,  and  I longed  for  O’jShaughnessy’s  coming,  trust- 
ing that  he  might  be  able  to  confirm  my  hopes.  His  servant  in- 
formed me  that  the  Major  had  been  absent  since  daybreak,  and 
left  orders  that  he  was  not  to  be  w^aited  for  at  breakfast. 

I was  not  destined,  however,  to  pass  a solitary  time  in  his  ab- 
sence; for  every  moment  brought  some  new  arrival  to  visit  me, 
and  during  the  morning  the  Colonel  and  every  officer  of  the  regi- 
ment not  on  actual  duty  came  over.  I soon  learned  that  the 
feeling  respecting  Trevyllian’s  conduct  was  of  unmixed  con- 


296 


CHAHLES  SMALLEY. 


demnation  among  my  own  corps;  but  that  a kind  of  party  spirit 
which  had  subsisted  for  some  months  between  the  regiment  he 
belonged  to  and  the  P'ourteeath,  had  given  a graver  character  to 
the  affair,  and  induced  many  men  to  take  up  his  views  of  the 
transaction;  and,  although  I heard  of  none  who  attributed  my 
absence  to  any  dislike  to  a meeting,  yet  there  were  several  who 
conceived  that  by  not  going  at  the  time,  I had  forfeited  all  claim 
to  satisfaction  at  his  hands. 

“ Now  that  Merivale  is  gone,”  said  an  officer  to  me,  as  the 
Colonel  left  the  room,  “ I may  confess  to  you  that  he  sees  noth- 
ing to  blame  in  your  conduct  throughout,  and,  even  had  you 
been  aware  of  how  matters  were  circumstanced,  your  duty  was 
too  imperative  to  have  preferred  your  personal  considerations 
to  it.” 

“ Does  any  one  know  where  Conyers  is?”  said  Baker, 

“ The  story  goes  that  Conyers  can  assist  us  here.  Conyers  is 
at  Zarza  la  Mayor  with  the  28th;  but  what  can  he  do?” 

“ That  I’m  not  able  to  tell  you;  but  I know  O’Shaughnessy 
heard  something  at  parade  this  morning,  and  has  set  off  in 
search  of  him  on  every  side.” 

“Was  Conyers  ever  out  with  Trevyllian  ?” 

“ Not  as  a principal,  I believe.  The  report  is,  however,  that  he 
knows  more  about  him  than  other  people,  as  Tom  certainly,  does 
of  everybody.” 

“ It  is  rather  a new  thing  for  Trevyllian  to  refuse  a meeting. 
They  say,  O’Malley,  he  has  heard  of  your  shooting.” 

“No,  no,”  said  another,  “he  cares  very  little  for  any  man’s 
pistol.  If  the  story  be  true,  he  fires  a second  or  two  before 
his  adversary,  at  least,  it  was  in  that  way  he  Jiilled  Carysfort!” 

“Here  comes  the  great  O’Shaughnessy!”  cried  some  one  at 
the  window;  and  the  next  moment  the  heavy  gallop  of  a horse 
was  heard  along  the  causeway. 

In  an  instant  we  all  rushed  to  the  door  to  receive  him. 

“ It’s  all  right,  lads,”  cried  he,  as  he  came  up,  “ we  have  him 
this  time.” 

“How?  when?  why?  In  what  way  have  you  managed?” 
fell  from  a dozen  voices  as  the  Major  elbowed  his  way  through 
the  crowd  to  the  sitting-room. 

“In  the  first  place,”  said  O’Shaughnessy,  drawing  a long 
breath,  “I  have  promised  secrecy  as  to  the  steps  of  this  trans- 
action; secondly,  if  I hadn’t  it  would  puzzle  me  to  break  it; 
for  I’ll  be  hanged  if  I know  more  than  yourselves.  Tom  Con- 
yers wrote  me  a few  lines  for  Trevyllian;  and  Trevyllian 
pledges  him f elf  to  meet  our  friend;  and  that’s  all  we  need 
know  or  care  for.” 

“Then  you  have  seen  Trevyllian  this  morning?” 

“ No;  Beaufort  met  me  at  the  village;  but  even  now  it  seems 
that  this  affair  is  never  to  come  off.  Trevyllian  has  been  sent 
with  a forage  party  toward  Lesca:  however,  that  can’t  be  a 
long  absence.  But,  for  Heaven’s  sake!  let  me  have  some  break- 
fast.” 

While  O’Shaughnessy  proceeded  to  the  attack  of  the  viands 
before  him,  the  others  chatted  about  in  little  groups,  but  all  wore 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


297 


the  pleased*  and  happy  looks  of  men  who  had  rescued  their 
friend  from  a menaced  danger.  As  for  myself,  my  heart 
swelled  with  gratitude  to  the  kind  fellows  around  me. 

‘‘How  has  Conyers  assisted  us  at  this  juncture?”  was  my 
first  question  to  O’Shauglmessy,  when  we  were  once  more 
alone. 

“I  am  not  at  liberty  to  speak  on  that  subject,  Charley.  But, 
be  satisfied,  the  reasons  for  which  Trevyllian  meets  you  are 
fair  and  honorable.” 

“ I am  content.” 

“ The  only  thing  now  to  be  done  is,  to  have  the  meeting  as 
soon  as  possible.” 

“We  are  all  agreed  upon  that  point,”  said  I;  “and  the  more 
so,  as  the  matter  had  better  be  decided  before  Sir  Arthur’s  re- 
turn.” 

“ Quite  true;  and  now,  O’Malley,  you  had  better  join  your 
people  as  soon  as  may  be,  and  it  will  put  a stop  to  all  talking 
about  the  matter.” 

The  advice  was  good,  and  I lost  no  time  in  complying  with  it, 
and,  when  I joined  the  regiment  that  day  at  mess,  it  was  with 
a light  heart  and  cheerful  spirit;  for,  come  what  might  of  the 
affair,  of  one  thing  I was  certain — my  character  was  now  put 
above  any  reach  of  aspersion,  and  my  reputation  beyond 
attack. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

ALL  RIGHT, 

Some  days  after  coming  back  to  head-quarters,  I was  return- 
ing from  a visit  I had  been  making  to  a friend  at  one  of  the  out- 
posts, when  an  officer  whom  I knew  slightly  overtook  me  and 
informed  me  that  Major  O’Shaughnessy  had  been  to  my  head- 
quarters in  search  of  me,  and  had  sent  persons  in  different  di- 
rections to  find  me. 

Suspecting  the  object  of  the  Major’s  haste,  T hurried  on  at 
once,  and,  as  I rode  up  to  the  spot,  found  him  in  the  midst  of  a 
group  of  officers,  engaged,  to  all  appearance,  in  most  eager  con- 
versation. “ Oh,  here  he  comes,”  cried  he,  as  I cantered  up. 
“Come,  my  boy,  doff  the  blue  frock,  as  soon  as  you  can,  and 
turn  out  in  your  best  fitting  black.  Everything  has  been 
settled  for  this  evening  at  seven  o’clock,  and  we  have  no  time 
to  lose.” 

“ I understand  you,”  said  I,  “ and  shall  not  keep  you  waiting.” 
So  saying,  I sprang  from  the  saddle  and  hastened  to  my  quar- 
ters; as  I entered  the  room  I was  followed  by  O'Shaughnessy, 
who  closed  the  door  after  him  as  he  came  in;  and,  having  turn- 
ed the  key  in  it,  sat  down  beside  the  table,  and,  folding  his  arms, 
seemed  buried  in  reflection.  As  I proceeded  with  my  toilet,  he 
returned  no  answers  to  the  numerous  questions  I put  to  him, 
either  as  to  the  time  of  Trevy Ilian’s  return,  the  place  of  th^ 
meeting,  or  any  part  of  the  transaction- 

His  attention  seemed  to  wander  tar  irom  aii  arouna  and 
about  him;  and,  as  he  muttered  indistinctly  to  himself,  the  few 


298  CHARLES  ^MALLET. 

words  I could  catch  bore  not  in  the  remotest  degree  upon  the 
matter  before  us. 

“I  have  written  a letter  or  two  here,  Major,”  said  I,  opening 
my  writing-desk;  “in  case  anything  happens,  you  will  look  to 
the  few  things  I have  mentioned  here.  Somehow,  I could  not 
write  to  poor  Fred  Power;  but  you  must  tell  him  for  me  that  his 
noble  conduct  toward  me  was  the  last  thing  I spoke  of.” 

“ What  confounded  nonsense  you  are  talking!”  said  O’Shaugh- 
nessy,  springing  from  his  seat  and  crossing  the  room  with  tre- 
mendous strides,  “ croaking  away  there  as  if  the  bullet  was  in 
yom’  thorax.  Hang  it,  man,  bear  up!” 

“ But,  Major,  my  dear  friend,  what  the  deuce  are  you  thinking 
of!  The  few  things  I mentioned ” 

“ The  devil!  you  are  not  going  over  it  all  again,  are  you?”  said 
he,  in  a voice  of  no  measured  tone. 

I now  began  to  feel  agitated  in  turn,  and  really  looked  at  him 
for  some  seconds  in  considerable  amazement.  That  he  should 
have  mistaken  the  directions  I was  giving  him,  and  attril>- 
uted  them  to  any  cowardice,  was  too  insulting  a thought  to  bear; 
and  yet  how  otherwise  was  I to  understand  the  very  coarse  style 
of  his  interruption  ? 

At  length,  my  temper  got  the  victory,  and,  with  a voice  of 
most  measured  calmness,  I said:  “ Major  0‘Shaughnessy,  I am 
grateful,  most  deeply  grateful,  for  the  part  you  have  acted  to- 
ward me  in  this  difficult  business;  at  the  same  time,  as  you  now 
appear  to  disapprove  of  my  conduct  and  bearing,  when  I am  most 
firmly  determined  to  alter  nothing,  I shall  beg  to  relieve  you  of 
the  unpleasant  office  of  my  friend.” 

“ Heaven  grant  that  you  could  do  so!”  said  he,  interrupting 
me,  wiiile  his  clasped  hands  and  eager  look  attested  the  vehe- 
mence of  the  wish.  He  paused  for  a moment;  then,  springing 
from  his  chair,  rushed  toward  me,  and  threw  his  arms  around 
me.  “ No,  my  boy,  I can’t  do  it;  I can’t  do  it.  I have  tried  to 
bully  myself  into  insensibility  for  this  evening’s  work — I have 
endeavored  to  beriide  to  you  that  you  might  insult  me,  and  steel 
my  heart  against  what  might  happen;  but  it  won’t  do,  Charley; 
it  won’t  do.” 

With  these  words  the  big  tears  rolled  down  his  stem  cheeks, 
and  his  voice  became  thick  with  emotion. 

“ But  for  me,  and  all  this  need  not  have  happened.  I know  it; 
I feel  it:  I hurried  on  this  meeting;  your  character  stood  fair 
and  unblemished  without  that;  at  least,  they  tell  me  so  now; 
and  I still  have  to  assure  you ” 

“Come,  my  dear,  kind  friend,  don’t  give  way  in  this  fashion. 
You  have  stood  manfully  by  me  through  every  step  of  the 
road,  don’t  desert  me  on  the  tiireshold  of ” 

“ The  grave,  O’Malley ” 

“I  don’t  think  so.  Major;  but  see,  half -past  six.  Look  to  these 
pistols  for  me.  Are  they  likely  to  object  to  hair-triggers?” 

A knocking  at  the  door  turned  off  our  attention,  aud  the  next 
moment  Baker’s  voice  was  heard. 

“O'Malley,  you’ll  be  close  run  for  time;  the  meeting-place  is 
full  three  miles  from  this!” 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


299 


I seized  the  key  and  opened  the  door;  at  the  same  instant 
O’Shaughnessy  rose,  and  turned  toward  the  window,  holding  one 
of  the  pistols  in  his  hand. 

‘‘  Look  at  that,  Baker;  what  a sweet  tool  it  is,’'  said  he,  in  a 
voice  that  actually  made  me  start;  not  a trace  of  his  late  ex- 
citement remained.  His  usually  dry,  half-humorous  manner 
had  returned,  and  his  droll  features  were  as  full  of  their  own 
easy,  devil-may-care  fun  as  ever. 

“Here  comes  the  drag.”  said  Baker.  “We  can  drive  nearly 
all  the  way,  unless  you  prefer  riding.” 

“ Of  course  not.  Keep  your  hand  steady,  Charley,  and  if  you 
ilon’t  bring  him  down  with  that  saw-handle,  you're  not  your 
uncle’s  nephew.” 

With  these  words  we  mounted  into  the  tax-cart,  and  set  off 
for  the  meeting-place. 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

THE  DUEL. 

A SMALL  and  narrow  ravine  between  two  furze-covered  dells, 
led  to  the  open  space  where  the  meeting  had  been  arrangea  for. 
As  we  reached  this,  therefore,  we  were  obliged  to  descend  from 
the  drag,  and  proceed  the  remainder  of  the  way  afoot.  We  had 
not  gone  many  yards  when  a step  was  heard  approaching,  and 
the  next  moment  Beaufort  appeared.  His  usually  easy  and 
degage  air  was  certainly  tinged  with  somewhat  of  constraint; 
and  though  his  soft  voice  and  half-smile  were  as  perfect  as  ever, 
a slightly  flurried  expression  about  the  lip,  and  a quick  and 
nervous  motion  of  his  eyebrow,  bespoke  a heart  not  completely 
at  ease.  He  lifted  his  foraging  cap  most  ceremoniously  to  sa- 
lute us  as  we  came  up,  and,  casting  an  anxious  look  to  see  if  any 
others  were  following,  stood  quite  still. 

“ I think  it  right  to  mention.  Major  0‘Shaughnessy,”  said  he, 
in  a voice  of  most  dulcet  sweetness,  “ that  I am  the  only  friend 
of  Captain  Trevyllian  on  tlie  ground;  and,  though  I have  not 
the  slightest  objection  to  Captain  Baker  being  present,  I hope 
you  will  see  the  propriety  of  limiting  the  witnesses  to  the  three 
persons  now  here.” 

“ Upon  my  conscience,  as  far  as  I am  concerned,  or  my  friend 
either,  we  are  perfectly  indifferent  if  we  fight  before  three  or 
three  thousand.  In  Ireland,  we  rather  like  a crowd.” 

“ Of  course,  then,  as  you  see  no  objection  to  my  proposition, 
I may  count  upon  your  co-operation  in  the  event  of  any  intru- 
sion; I mean,  that  while  we,  upon  our  sides,  will  not  permit  any 
of  our  friends  to  come  forward,  you  will  equally  exert  yourself 
with  yours.” 

“Here  we  are.  Baker  and  myself;  neither  more  nor  less;  we 
expect  no  one  and  want  no  one;  so  that  I humbly  conceive  all 
the  preliminaries  you  are  talking  of  will  never  be  required.” 

Beaufort  tried  to  smile,  and  bit  his  lips,  while  a small  red  spot 
upon  his  cheek  spoke  that  some  deeper  feeling  of  irritation  than 
the  mere  careless  manner  of  the  Major  could  account  for,  still 
rankled  in  his  bosom.  We  now  wall^ed  on  without  speaking, 


800 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


except  when  occasionally  some  passing  observation  of  Beaufort 
upon  the  fineness  of  th^  evening,  or  the  rugged  nature  of  the 
road,  broke  the  silence.  As  we  emerg:ed  from  the  little  mount- 
ain pass  into  the  open  meadow  land,  the  tall  and  soldier-like 
figure  of  Trevyllian  was  the  first  object  that  presented  itself;  he 
was  standing  beside  a little  stone  cross  that  stood  above  a holy 
well,  and  seemed  occupied  in  deciphering  the  inscidption.  He 
turned  at  the  noise  of  our  approach,  and  calmly  waited  our 
coming.  His  eye  glanced  quickly  from  the  features  cf 
O’Shaughnessy  to  those  of  Baker,  but  seeming  rapidly  reassured 
as  he  walked  forward,  his  face  at  once  recovered  its  usual 
severity,  and  its  cold,  impressive  look  of  sternness. 

‘‘  All  right,”  said  Beaufort,  in  a whisper,  ^he  tones  of  which  I 
overheard,  as  he  drew  near  to  his  friend.  Trcv/yllian  smiled  in 
return,  but  did  not  speak.  During  the  few  moments  which 
passed  in  conversation  between  the  seconds,  I turned  from  the 
spot  with  Baker,  and  had  scarcely  time  to  address  a question  to 
him,  when  O’Shaughnessy  called  out:  “Hollo,  Baker^  come  here 
a moment!”  The  three  seemed  now  eager  in  discussion  for  some 
minutes,  when  Baker  walked  toward  Trevyllian,  and  saying 
something,  appeared  to  wait  for  his  reply.  This  being  obtained, 
he  joined  the  others,  and  the  moment  afterward  came  to  where 
I was  standing.  “You  are  to  toss  for  first  shot,  O’Malley^ 
O’Sbaughnessy  has  made  that  proposition,  and  the  others  agree 
that,  with  two  crack  marksmen,  it  is,  perhaps,  the  fairest  way, 
I suppose  you  have  no  objection  ?” 

“ Of  cours(i,  I shall  make  none.  Whatever  O’Shaughnessy  de- 
cides for  me,  I am  ready  to  abide  by.” 

“Well,  then,  as  to  the  distance?”  said  Beaufort,  loud  enough 
to  be  heard  by  me  where  I was  standing.  O’Shaugbnessy’s  re- 
ply I could  not  catch,  but  it  was  evident,  from  the  tone  or  both 
parties,  that  some  difference  existed  on  the  point. 

“Captain  Baker  shall  decide  between  us,”  said  Beaufort,  at 
length,  and  they  all  walked  away  to  some  distance.  During  aU 
the  while,  I could  perceive  that  Trevyllian’s  uneasiness  and  im- 
patience seemed  extreme.  He  looked  from  the  speakers  to  the 
little  mountain  pass,  and  strained  his  eyes  in  every  direction.  It 
was  clear  that  he  dreaded  some  interruption.  At  last,  unable 
any  longer  to  control  his  feelings,  he  called  out;  “Beaufort,  I 
say,  what  the  devil  are  you  waiting  for  now  ?” 

Nothing,  at  present,”  said  Beaufort,  as  he  came  forward 
with  a dollar  in  his  hand.  “ Come,  Major  0‘Shaughnessy,  you 
shall  call  for  5^ our  friend.” 

He  pitched  the  piece  of  money  as  he  spoke,  high  into  the  air, 
and  watched  it  as  it  fell  on  the  soft  grass  beneath. 

“Head!  for  a thousand,”  cried  O’Shaughnessy,  running  over 
and  stooping  down;  “and  head  it  is  1” 

“You’ve  won  the  first  shot,”  whispered  Baker;  “ for  Heaven's 
sake  be  cool!” 

Beaufort  grew  deadly  pale  as  he  bent  over  the  crown  piece, 
and  seemed  scarcely  to  have  courage  to  look  his  friend  in  the 
face.  Not  so  Trevyllian;  he  pulled  off  his  gloves  without  the 
slightest  semblance  of  emotion,  buttoned  up  his  well-fitting 


CHARLES  aMALLEA\  301 

black  trock  to  the  throat,  and,  throwing  a rapid  glance  around, 
seemed  only  eager  to  begin  the  combat. 

“ Fifteen  paces,  and  the  words  ‘ one— two.’  ” 

“Exactly.  My  cane  shall  mark  that  spot ” 

“ Devilish  long  paces  you  make  them,”  said  O’Shaughnessy, 
who  did  not  seem  to  approve  of  the  distance.  “ They  have  some 
confouuded  advantage  in  this,  depend  upon  it,”  said  the  Major, 
in  a whisper,  to  Baker. 

“Are  you  ready?”  inquired  Beaufort. 

“Ready,  quite  ready!” 

“Take  your  ground,  then!” 

As  Trevy Ilian  moved  forward  to  his  place,  he  muttered  some- 
thing to  his  friend.  I did  not  hear  the  first  part,  but  the  latter 
words  which  met  me  were  ominous  enough — “for,  as  I intend 
to  shoot  him,  ’tis  just  as  well  as  it  is.” 

Whether  this  was  meant  to  be  overheard,  and  intimidate  me, 
I know  not;  but  its  effect  proved  directly  opposite.  My  firm 
resolution  to  hit  my  antagonist  was  now  confirmed,  and  no  com- 
punctious visitings  unnerved  my  arm.  As  we  took  our  places, 
some  little  delay  again  took  place,  the  flint  of  my  pistol  having 
fallen;  and  thus  we  remained  full  ten  or  twelve  seconds,  stead- 
ily regarding  each  other.  At  length,  O’Shaughnessy  came  for- 
ward, and  putting  my  weapon  in  my  hand,  whispered  low:  “Re- 
member you  have  but  one  chance.” 

“ You  are  both  ready  ?”  cried  Beaufort. 

“ Ready!” 

“Then,  one — two ” 

The  last  word  was  lost  in  the  report  of  my  pistol,  which  went 
off  at  the  instant.  For  a second,  the  flash  and  smoke  obstructed 
my  view;  but  the  moment  after,  I saw  Trevyllian  stretched  upon 
the  ground,  with  his  friend  kneeling  beside  him.  My  first  im- 
pulse was  to  rush  over,  for  now  all  feeling  of  enmity  was  buried 
in  most  heartfelt  anxiety  for  his  fate;  but,  as  I was  stepping 
forvvard,  O'Shaughnessy  called  out:  “Stand  fast,  boy,  he’s  only 
wounded!’  and  the  same  moment  he  rose  slowly  from  the 
ground,  with  the  assistance  of  his  friend,  and  looked  with  the 
same  wild  gaze  around  him*  Such  a look!  I shall  never  forget 
it;  there  was  that  intense  expression  of  searching  anxiety,  as  if 
he  sought  to  trace  the  outlines  of  some  visionary  spirit  as  it  re- 
ceded before  him;  quickly  reassured,  as  it  seemed  by  the 
glance  he  threw  on  all  sides,  his  countenance  lighted  up,  not 
with  pleasure,  but  with  a fiendish  expression  of  revengeful 
triumph,  which  even  his  voice  evinced  as  he  called  out:  “It’s 
my  turn  now.” 

I felt  the  words  in  their  full  force,  as  I stood  silently  awaiting  my 
death- wound;  the  pause  ^vas  a long  one;  twice  did  he  interrupt 
his  friend,  as  he  was  about  to  give  the  word,  by  an  expression 
of  suffering,  pressing  his  hand  upon  his  side,  and  seeming  to 
writhe  with  torture;  yet  this  was  mere  counterfeit. 

O’Shaughnessy  was  now  coming  forward  to  interfere  and  pre- 
vent these  interruptions,  when  Trevyllian  called  out  in  a firm 
tone*  “ I’m  ready!’  The  words  “one — two.’*  the  pistol  slowly 
rose,  his  dark  eye  measured  me  coolly,  steadily;  his  lip  curled, 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


and  just  as  I felt  that  my  last  moment  of  life  had  arrived,  a 
heavy  sound  of  a horse  galloping  along  the  rocky  causeway 
seemed  to  take  off  his  attention.  His  frame  trembled,  his  hand 
shook,  and.  jerking  upward  his  weapon,  the  ball  passed  high 
above  my  head. 

“You  bear  me  witness,  I fired  in  the  air,”  said  Trevyllian 
while  the  large  drops  of  perspiration  rolled  from  his  foreheaa 
and  his  features  worked,  as  if  in  a fit. 

“ You  saw  it,  sir,  and  you,  Beaufort,  my  friend— you  also  - 
speak!  Why  will  you  not  speak?” 

“Be  calm,  Trevyllian;  be  calm,  for  Heaven's  sake.  Whats 
the  matter  with  you  ?” 

“ The  affair  is  then  ended,”  said  Baker,  *‘and  most  happily 
80.  You  are,  1 hope,  not  dangerously  wounded.” 

As  he  spoke,  Trevy Ilian’s  features  grew  deadly  livid;  his  half- 
open mouth  quivered  slightly;  his  eyes  became  fixed,  and  his 
arm  dropped  heavily  beside  him,  and  with  one  low,  faint  moan, 
he  fell  fainting  to  the  ground. 

As  w^e  bent  over  him,  I now  perceived  that  another  person  had 
joined  our  party;  he  was  a short,  determined-looking  man,  of 
about  forty,  with  black  eyes  and  aquiline  features.  Before  I had 
time  to  guess  who  it  might  be,  I heard  O’Shaughnessy  address 
him  as  Colonel  Conyers. 

“He  is  dying!”  said  Beaufort,  still  stooping  over  his  friend, 
whose  cold  hand  he  grasped  within  his  own,  “ poor,  poor  fel- 
low!” ^ 

“He  fired  in  the  W^^aid  Baker,  as  he  spoke  in  reply  to  a 
question  ftsom  Conyers;  what  he  answered  I heard  not;  but 
Baker  rejoined: 

“Yes,  I am  certain  of  it.  We  all  saw  it.” 

“ Had  you  not  better  examine  his  wounds?”  said  Conyers,  in 
a tone  of  sarcastic  irony  I could  almost  have  struck  him  for. 

“ Is  your  friend  not  hit  ? perhaps  he  is  bleeding  ?” 

“Yes,”  said  O’Shaughnessy,  “let  us  look  to  the  poor  fellow 
now.”  So  saying,  and  with  Beaufort’s  aid,  he  unbuttoned  his 
frock,  and  succeeded  in  opening  the  waistcoat;  there  was  no 
trace  of  blood  anywhere,  and  the  idea  of  internal  hemorrhage  at 
once  occured  to  us.  When  Conyers,  stooping  down,  pushed  me 
aside,  saying,  at  the  same  time:  “Your  fears  for  his  safety  need 
not  distress  you  much:  look  here.”  As  he  spoke,  he  tore  open 
his  shirt,  and  disclosed  to  our  almost  doubting  senses  a vest  of 
chain  mail  armor,  fitting  close  next  the  skin,  and  completely 
pistol-proof. 

I cannot  describe  the  effect  this  sight  produced  upon  us. 
Beaufort  sprang  to  his  feet  wdth  a bound,  as  he  screamed  out, 
rather  than  spoke:  “ No  man  belives  me  to  have  been  aware ” 

“ No,  no.  Beaufort;  your  reputation  is  very  far  removed  from 
such  a stain,”  said  Conyers. 

O’Shaugbnessy  was  perfectly  speechless;  he  looked  from  one 
to  the  other,  as  though  some  unexplained  mystery  still  remained, 
and  only  seemed  restoi'ed  to  any  sense  of  consciousness  as  Baker 
said:  “I  can  feel  no  pulse  at  his  wrist:  his  heart,  too,  does  not 
beat,”  Conyers  placed  his  hand  upon  his  bosom,  then  felt  along 


CHARLES  SMALLEY, 


m 


his  throat,  lifted  up  an  arm,  and,  letting  it  fall  heavily  upon  the 
ground,  he  muttered:  “ He  is  dead/’ 

It  was  true.  No  wound  had  pierced  him ; the  pistol  bullet  was 
found  within  his  clothes.  Some  tremendous  conflict  of  the  spirit 
within  had  snapped  the  cords  of  life,  and  the  strong  man  had 
perished  in  his  agony. 


CHAPTER  LXIII, 

NEWS  FROM  GALWAY. 

I HAVE  but  a vague  and  most  imperfect  recollection  of  the 
events  which  followed  this  dreadful  scene;  for  some  days  mj; 
faculties  seemed  stunned  and  paralyzed,  and  my  thoughts  clung 
to  the  minute  detail  of  the  ground — the  persons  about— the 
mountain  path,  and  most  of  all,  the  half-stifled  cry  that  spoke 
the  broken  heart,  with  a tenacity  that  verged  upon  madness. 

A court-martial  was  appointed  to  inquire  into  the  affair;  and, 
although  I have  been  since' told  that  my  deportment  was  calm, 
and  my  answers  were  firm  and  collected,  yet  I remember  nothing 
of  the  proceedings. 

The  inquiry,  through  a feeling  of  delicacy  for  the  friends  of 
him  who  was  no  more,  was  made  as  brief  and  as  private  as  pos- 
sible. Beaufort  proved  the  facts,  which  exonerated  me  from 
any  imputation  in  the  matter;  and  upon  the  same  day  the  court 
delivered  the  decision,  “ That  Lieutenant  O’Malley  was  not  guilty 
of  the  charges  preferred  against  him,  and  that  he  should  be  re- 
leased from  arrest,  and  join  his  regiment.” 

Nothing  could  be  more  kind  and  considerate  than  the  conduct 
of  my  brother  officers;  a hundred  little  plans  and  devices  for 
making  me  forget  the  late  unhappy  event  were  suggested  and 
practiced;  and  I look  back  to  that  melancholy  period,  marked, 
at  it  was,  by  the  saddest  circumstance  of  my  life,  as  one  in  which 
I received  more  of  truly  friendly  companionship,  than  even  my 
palmiest  days  of  prosperity  boasted. 

While,  therefore,  I deeply  felt  the  good  part  my  frieiods  were 
performing  toward  me,  I was  still  totally  unsuited  to  join  in  the 
happy  current  of  their  daily  pleasures  and  amusements;  the  gay 
and  unreflecting  character  of  O’Shaughnessy — the  careless  mer- 
riment of  my  brother  officers,  jarred  upon  my  nerves  and  ren- 
dered me  irritable  and  excited;  and  I sought  in  lonely  rides,  and 
unfrequented  walks,  the  peace  of  spirit,  that  calm  reflection,  and 
a firm  purpose  for  the  future  rarely  fail  to  lead  to. 

There  is,  in  deep  sorrow,  a touch  of  the  prophetic.  It  is  at 
seasons  when  the  heart  is  bowed  down  with  grief,  and  the  spiri j 
wasted  with  suffering,  that  the  veil  which  conceals  the  future 
seems  to  be  removed,  and  a glance,  short  and  fleeting  as  the 
lightning  flash,  is  permitted  us  into  the  gloomy  valley  before 
us. 

Misfortunes,  too,  come  not  singly- — the  sacred  heart  is  not  suf- 
fered to  heal  from  one  affliction,  eie  another  succeeds  it;  and 
this  anticipation  of  the  coming  evil  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most 
poignant  features  of  grief— the  ever  watchful  apprehension — the 


804  CHARLES  CMALLEW 

ever  rising  question,  “What  next?”  is  a torture  that  never 
sleeps. 

This  was  the  frame  of  my  mind  for  several  days  after  I re- 
turned to  my  duty —a  morbid  sense  of  some  threatened  danger 
being  my  last  thought  at  night,  and  my  first  on  awakening.  I 
had  not  heard  from  home  since  my  arrival  in  the  Peninsula;  a 
thousand  vague  fancies  haunted  me  now,  that  some  brooding 
misfortune  awaited  me.  My  poor  uncle  never  left  my  thoughts. 
Was  he  well — was  he  happy?  Was  he,  as  he  ever  wished  to  be, 
surrounded  by  the  friends  he  loved— the  old  familiar  faces, 
around  the  hospitable  hearth,  his  kindliness  had  hallowed  in  my 
memory  as  something  sacred?  Oh!  could  I but  see  his  manly 
smile,  or  hear  his  voice!  Could  I but  feel  his  hand  upon  ifiy 
head,  as  he  was  wont  to  press  it,  while  words  of  comfort  fell 
from  his  lips,  and  sunk  into  my  heart! 

Such  were  my  thoughts  one  morning,  as  I sauntered  from  my 
quarters  alone  and  unaccompanied.  I had  not  gone  far,  when 
my  attention  was  aroused  by  the  noise  of  a mule  cart,  whose 
jingling  bells  and  clattering  timbers  announced  its  approach  by 
the  road  I was  walking.  Another  turn  of  the  way  brought  it 
into  view;  and  I saw  from  the  gay  costume  of  the  driver,  as  well 
as  a small  orange  flag  which  decorated  the  conveyance,  that  it 
was  the  mail  cart  with  letters  from  Lisbon. 

Full  as  my  mind  was  with  thoughts  of  home,  I turned  hastily 
back,  and  retraced  my  steps  toward  the  camp.  When  I reached 
the  Adjutant-General's  quarters,  I found  a considerable  number 
of  officers  assembled;  the  report  that  the  post  had  come  was  a 
rumor  of  interest  to  all,  and  accordingly  every  moment  brought 
fresh  arrivals  pouring  in  from  all  sides,  and  eagerly  inquiring 
“ if  the  bags  had  been  opened  ?”  The  scene  of  riot,  confusion, 
and  excitement  when  that  event  did  take  place,  exceeded  all  be- 
lief, each  man  reading  his  letter  half  aloud,  as  if  his  private  affaii’s 
and  domestic  concerns  must  interest  his  neighbors,  amid  a volley 
of  exclamations  of  surprise,  pleasure,  or  occasionally  anger,  as 
the  intelligence  severally  suggested — the  disappointed  expectants, 
cursing  their  idle  correspondents,  bemoaning  their  fate  about  re- 
mittances that  never  arrived,  or  drafts  never  honored,  while  here 
and  there  some  public  benefactor,  with  an  out-spread  “ Times,” 
or  “ Chronicle,”  was  retailing  the  narrative  of  our  own  exploits 
in  the  Peninsula,  or  the  more  novel  changes  in  the  w^orld  of 
politics,  since  we  left  England.  A cross-fire  of  news  and  London 
gossip  ringing  on  every  side,  made  up  a perfect  Babel,  most  dif- 
ficult to  form  an  idea  of.  The  jargon  partook  of  every  accent 
and  intonation  the  empire  boasts  of;  and  from  the  sharp  precision 
of  the  North  Tweeder  to  the  broad  doric  of  Kerry,  every  portion, 
almost  every  county  of  Great  Britain  had  its  representative. 
Here  was  a Scotch  paymaster,  in  a lugubrious  tone  detailing  to 
his  friend  the  apparently  not  over-welcome  news,  that  Mistress 
M’Elwain  had  just  been  safely  delivered  of  twins,  which  with 
their  mother,  were  doing  as  well  as  possible.  Here  an  eager 
Irishman,  turning  over  the  pages,  rather  than  reading  his  letter, 
while  he  exclaimed  to  his  friend: 

“ Oh,  the  devil  a rap  she’s  sent  me.  The  old  story  about  run- 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


305 


away  tenants  and  distress  notices — sorry  else  tenants  seem  to  do 
in  Ireland  than  run  every  half-year.” 

A little  apart,  some  sentimental-looking  cockney  was  devour- 
ing a very  crossed  epistle,  which  he  pressed  to  his  lips  whenever 
any  one  looked  at  him,  while  a host  of  others  satisfied  them- 
selves by  reading  in  a kind  of  buzzing  undertone,  every  now 
and  then  interrupting  themselves  with  some  broken  exclamation 
as  commentary — such  as,  “of  course  she  will!” — “ never  knew 
him  better!” — “ that’s  the  girl  for  my  monf^y!” — “ fifty  per  cent, 
the  devil!” — and  so  on.  At  last  I was  beginning  to  weary  of  the 
scene,  and  finding  that  there  appeared  to  be  nothing  for  me,  was 
turning  to  leave  the  place,  when  I saw  a group  of  two  or  three 
endeavoring  to  spell  the  address  of  a letter. 

“That’s  an  Irish  post-mark,  I’ll  swear,”  said  one,  “ but  who 
can  make  anything  of  the  name  ? It’s  very  like  Otaheite — isn’t 
it  ?” 

“ I wish  my  tailor  wrote  as  illegibly,”  said  another.  “ I’d  keep 
up  an  animated  correspondence  with  him.” 

“ Here,  O’Shaughnessy,  you  know  something  of  savage  life — 
spell  this  word  here.” 

“ Show  it  here — what  nonsense — it’s  as  plain  as  the  nose  on 
my  face — ‘ Master  Charles  O’Malley,  in  foreign  parts.’  ” 

A roar  of  laughter  followed  the  announcement,  which  at  any 
other  time,  perhaps  I should  have  joined  in,  but  which  now 
grated  sadly  upon  my  ru filed  feelings. 

“ Here,  Charley,  this  is  for  you,”  said  the  Major;  and  added  in 
a whisper,  “and,  upon  my  conscience  between  ourselves,  your 
friend,  whoever  he  is,  has  a strong  action  agains  this  writing-mas- 
ter— devil  su(;h  a fist  I ever  looked  at.” 

One  glance  satisfied  me  as  to  my  correspondent.  It  was  from 
Father  Eush,  my  old  tutor.  I hurried  eagerly  from  the  spot — 
and,  regaining  my  quarters,  locked  the  door,  and  with  a beating 
heart  broke  the  seal,  and  began  as  well  as  I was  able  to  decipher 
his  letter.  The  hand  was  cramped  and  stiffened  with  age,  and 
the  bold  upright  letters  were  gnarled  and  twisted  like  a rustic 
fence  and  demanded  great  patience  and  time  in  unraveling.  It 
ran  thus: 

“The  Priory,  Lady-day,  1809. 

“ My  DEAR  Master  Charles: 

“ Your  uncle’s  feet  are  so  big  and  so  uneasy  that  he  can’t  write, 
and  I am  obliged  to  take  up  the  pen  myself,  to  tell  you  how  we 
are  doing  here  since  you  left  us.  And,  first  of  all,  the  master 
lost  the  lawsuit  in  Dublin,  all  for  want  of  a Galway  jury;  but 
they  don’t  go  up  to  town  for  strong  reasons  they  had;  and  the 
Curranolick  property  is  gone  to  Ned  M’Manus,  and  may  the 
devil  do  him  good  with  it!  Peggy  Maher  left  this  on  Tuesday; 
she  was  complaining  of  a weakness;  she's  gone  to  consult  the 
doctors.  I’m  sorry  for  poor  Peggy. 

“ Owen  M’Neil  beat  the  Slatterys  out  of  Durumna  on  Saturday, 
and  Jem,  they  say  is  fractured.  I trust  it’s  true,  for  he  never 
was  good,  root  nor  branch,  and  we’ve  strong  reasons  to  suspect 
him  for  drawing  the  river  with  a net  at  night.  Sir  Harry  Boyle 
sprained  his  wrist,  breaking  open  his  bedroom  that  he  locked 


806 


CHAULES  am  ALLEY. 


when  he  was  inside.  The  Count  and  the  master  were  laughing 
all  the  evening  at  him.  Matters  are  going  very  hard  in  the 
county  I the  people  paying  their  rents  regularly,  and  not  caring 
half  as  much  as  they  used  to  about  the  real  gentry,  and  the  old 
families. 

We  kept  your  birth-day  at  the  Castle  in  great  style — had  the 
militia  band  from  the  town,  and  all  the  tenants.  Mr.  James 
Daly  danced  with  your  old  friend  Mary  Green,  and  sang  a 
beautiful  song;  and  was  going  to  raise  the  devil,  but  I inter- 
fered; he  burnt  down  haB  the  blue  drawing-room  the  last  night 
with  bis  tricks;  not  that  your  uncle  cares.  God  preserve  him  to 
us~it’s  little  anything  like  that  would  fret  him.  The  Count 
quarreled  with  a young  gentleman  in  the  course  of  the  evening, 
but  found  out  he  was  only  an  attorney  from  Dublin,  so  he 
didn’t  shoot  him,  but  he  was  ducked  in  the  pond  by  the  people, 
and  your  uncle  says  he  hopes  they  have  a true  copy  of  him  at 
home,  as  they’ll  never  know  the  original. 

Peter  died  soon  after  you  went  away,  but  Tim  hunts  the  dogs 
just  as  well;  they  had  a beautiful  run  last  Wednesday,  and  the 
Lord*  sent  for  him  and  gave  him  a five  pound  note,  but,  he  says, 
he’d  rather  see  yourself  back  again  than  twice  as  much;  they 
killed  near  the  big  turnip  field,  ^d  all  went  down  to  see  where 
you  kaped  Badger  over  the  sunk  fence;  they  call  it  ‘Hammer- 
sly’s  Nose  ’ ever  since.  Bodkin  was  at  Ballinasloe  the  last  fair, 
limping  about  with  a stick;  he’s  twice  as  quiet  as  he  used  to  be, 
and  never  beat  any  one  since  that  morning. 

“ Nellie  Guire,  at  the  cross-roads,  wants  to  send  you  four  pair 
of  stockings  she’s  knitted  for  you;  and  I have  a keg  of  poteen  of 
Barney’s  own  making  this  two  inonths,  not  knowing  how  to 
send  it;  maybe  Sir  Arthur  himself  would  like  a taste;  he’s  an 
Irishman  himself,  and  one  we’re  proud  of,  too!  The  Maynootli 
chaps  are  flying  all  about  the  country,  and  making  us  all  uncom- 
fortable— God’s  will  be  done,  but  we  used  to  think  ourselves  good 
enough!  Your  foster-sister,  Kitty  Doolan,  had  a fine  boy;  it’s 
to  be  called  after  you;  and  your  uncle  is  to  give  a christening. 
He  bids  me  tell  you  to  draw  on  him  when  you  want  money,  and 
, that  there’s  £400  ready  for  you  now  somewhere  in  Dublin;  I 
forget  the  name,  and  as  he’s  asleep  I don't  like  asking  him. 
There  was  a droll  devil  do^v^n  here  in  the  summer  that  knew  you 
weil — a Mr.  Webber.  The  master  treated  him  like  the  lord  lieu- 
tenant; had  dinner  parties  for  him,  and  gave  him  Oliver  Crom- 
well to  ride  over  to  Meelish.  He  is  expected  again  for  the  cock- 
shooting; for  the  master  likes  him  greatly.  I'm  done  at  last,  for 
my  paper  is  finished  and  the  candle  just  out;  so,  with  every  good 
wish  and  every  good  thought,  remember  your  old  friend. 

“Peter  Push. 

“ P.  S. — It’s  Smart  & Sykes,  Fleet  street,  has  the  money. 
Father  O’Shaughnessy  of  Ennis  bids  me  ask  if  you  ever  met  his 
nephew.  If  you  do,  make  him  sing  ‘ Larry  McHale;’  I hear  it’s 
a treat. 

* To  excuse  Father  Rush  for  any  apparent  impiety,  I must  add  that 
by  the  “Lord,”  he  means  “ Lord  Clani’icarde.” 


CHARLES'  O^MALLET: 


307 


“ How  is  Mickey  Free  going  on  ? There  are  three  decent  young 
women  in  the  parish  he  promised  to  marry;  and  I suppose  he's 
pursuing  the  same  game  with  the  Portuguese.  But  he  was  never 
remarkable  for  minding  his  duties.  Tell  him^  am  keeping  my 
eye  on  him.  P.  R.” 

Here  concluded  this  long  epistle,  and,  though  there  were  many 
parts  I could  not  help  smiling  at,  yet,  upon  the  whole,  I felt  sad 
and  dispirited.  What  I had  long  foreseen  and  anticipated  was 
gradually  accomplishing;  the  wreck  of  an  old  and  honored  house; 
the  fall  of  a name  once  the  watchword  for  all  that  was  benevo- 
lent and  hospitable  in  the  land.  The  termination  of  the  lawsuit 
I knew  must  have  been  a heavy  blow  to  my  poor  uncle,  who, 
every  consideration  of  money  apart,  felt  in  a legal  combat  all 
the  enthusiasm  and  excitement  of  a personal  conflict;  with  him 
there  was  less  a question  of  to  whom  the  broad  acres  reverted,  so 
much  as  whether  that  “scoundrel,  Tom  Bassett,  the  attorney  at 
Athlon e,  should  triumph  over  us;”  or  “ M' Manus  live  in  the 
house  as  master,  where  his  father  had  officiated  as  butler.”  It 
was  at  this  his  Irish  pride  took  offense,  and  straitened  circum- 
stances and  narrowed  fortunes  bore  little  upon  him  in  comparison 
to  this  feeling. 

I could  see,  too,  that,  with  breaking  fortunes,  bad  health  was 
making  heavy  inroads  upon  him;  and  while,  with  the  reckless 
desperation  of  ruin,  he  still  kept  open  house,  I could  picture  to 
myself  his  cheeidul  eye  and  handsome  smile  but  ill  concealing 
the  slow  but  certain  march  of  a broken  heart. 

My  position  was  doubly  painful;  for  any  advice,  had  I been 
calculated  to  give  it,  would  have  seemed  an  act  of  indelicate 
interference  from  one  who  was  to  benefit  by  his  own  counsel;  and, 
although  I had  been  reared  and  educated  as  my  uncle's  heir,  I 
had  no  title  nor  pretension  to  succeed  him  other  than  his  kind 
feelings  respecting  me.  I could,  therefore,  only  look  on  in 
silence,  and  watch  the  painful  progress  of  our  downfall,  without 
a power  to  arrest  it. 

These  were  sad  thoughts,  and  came  when  my  heart  was  already 
bowed  down  with  affliction.  That  my  poor  uncle  might  be 
spared  the  misery  which  sooner  or  later  seemed  inevitable,  was 
now  my  only  wish;  that  he  might  go  down  to  the  grave  without 
the  imbittering  feelings  which  a ruined  fortune  and  a fallen 
house  bring  home  to  the  heart,  was  all  my  prayer.  Let  him  but 
close  his  eye«  in  the  old  wainscoted  bedroom,  beneath  the  old 
roof  where  his  fathers  and  grandfathers  have  done  so  for  centuries. 
Let  the  faithful  followers  he  has  known  since  his  childhood, 
stand  round  his  bed;  while  his  fast-failing  sight  recognizes  each 
old  and  well-remembered  object,  and  the  same  bell  which  rung 
its  farewell  to  the  spirit  of  his  ance^Aers,  toll  for  him — the  last 
of  his  race;  and  as  for  me,  there  was  the  wide  world  before  me, 
and  a narrow  resting-place  would  suffice  for  a soldier’s  sepul- 
cher. 

As  the  mail  cart  was  returning  the  next  day  to  Lisbon,  I im- 
mediately sat  down  and  replied  to  the  worthy  father's  letter; 
speaking  as  encouragingly  as  I could  of  my  own  prospects.  I 


808 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


dwelt  much  upon  what  was  nearest  my  heart,  and  begged 
of  the  good  priest  to  watch  over  my  uncle’s  health,  to  cheer  his 
spirits,  and  support  his  courage;  and  that  I trusted  the  day  was 
not  far  distant  wiien  I should  be  once  more  amongst  them,  with 
many  a story  of  fray  and  battle-field  to  enliven  their  firesides; 
pressing  him  to  write  frequently  to  me,  I closed  my  hurried  let- 
ter, and,  having  dispatched  it,  sat  sorrovrfully  down  to  mus« 
over  my  misfortunes. 


CHAPTER  LXTV. 

AN  ADVENTURE  WITH  SIR  ARTHUR. 

The  events  of  the  last  few  days  had  impressed  me  with  the 
weight  of  years.  The  awful  circumstances  of  that  evening  lay 
heavily  at  my  heart,  and  though  guiltless  of  Trevyllian’s  blood, 
the  reproach  that  conscience  ever  carries,  when  one  has  been  in- 
volved in  a death-scene,  never  left  my  thoughts. 

For  some  time  previously  I had  been  depressed  and  dispirited, 
and  the  awful  shock  I had  sustained  broke  my  nerve  and  un- 
manned me  greatly. 

There  are  times  when  our  sorrows  tinge  all  the  colorings  of 
our  thoughts,  and  one  pervading  hue  of  melancholy  spreads  like 
a pall  upon  what  we  have  of  fairest  and  brightest  on  earth.  So 
was  it  now;  I had  lost  hope  and  ambition — a sad  feeling  that 
my  career  was  destined  to  misfortune  and  mishap,  gained  hourly 
upon  me;  and  all  the  bright  aspirations  of  a soldier’s  glory — 
all  my  enthusiasm  for  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war 
fell  coldly  upon  my  heart;  and  I looked  npon  the  chivalry  of  a 
soldier’s  life  as  the  empty  pageant  of  a dream. 

In  this  sad  frame  of  mind  I avoided  all  intercourse  with  my 
brother  ofiScers — their  gay  and  joyous  spirits  only  jarred  upoia 
my  brooding  thoughts,  and,  feigning  illness,  I kept  almost  entirely 
to  my  quarters. 

The  inactivity  of  our  present  life  weighed  also  heavily  upon 
me.  The  stirring  events  of  a campaign — the  march,  the  bivouac, 
the  picket,  calls  forth  a certain  physical  exertion,  that  never 
fails  to  react  upon  the  torpid  mind. 

Forgetting  all  around  me,  I thought  of  home;  I thought  of 
those  whose  hearts  I felt  were  now  turning  toward  me,  and  con- 
sidered  within  myself  how  I could  have  exchanged  the  home — 
the  days  of  peaceful  happiness  there,  for  the  life  of  misery  and 
disappointment  I now  endured. 

A brooding  melancholy  gained  daily  more  and  more  upon  me. 
A wish  to  return  to  Ireland — a vague  and  indistinct  feeling  that 
my  career  was  not  destined  for  aught  of  great  and  good,  crept 
upon  me,  and  I longed  to  sink  into  oblivion,  forgetting  and 
forgot. 

I record  this  painful  feeling  here,  while  it  is  still  a painful 
memory,  as  one  of  the  dark  shadows  that  cross  the  bright  sky 
of  our  happiest  days. 

Happy,  indeed,  are  they,  as  we  look  back  to  them,  and  remem- 
ber the  times  we  have  pronounced  ourselves  ‘‘  the  most 
miserable  of  mankind.”  This,  somehow,  is  a confession  we 


CHARLES  aMALLET, 


309 


never  make  later  on  in  life,  when  reai  troubles  and  true  afflic- 
tions assail  us.  Whether  we  call  in  more  philosophy  to  our 
aid,  or  that  our  senses  become  less  acute  and  discerning,  I am 
sure  I know  not. 

As  for  me,  I confess  by  far  the  greater  portion  of  my  sorrows 
seemed  to  come  in  that  budding  period  of  existence  when  life  is 
ever  fairest  and  most  captivating.  Not,  perhaps,  that  the  fact 
was  really  so,  but  the  spoiled  and  humored  child,  whose  caprices 
were  a law,  felt  lieavily  the  threatening  difficulties  of  his  first 
voyage,  while,  as  1 e continued  to  sail  over  the  ocean  of  life,  he 
braved  the  storm  and  the  squall,  and  felt  only  gratitude  for  the 
favoring  breeze  that  wafted  him  upon  his  course. 

What  an  admirable  remedy  for  misanthropy  is  the  being 
placed  in  a subordinate  condition  in  life.  Had  I,  at  the  period 
I write,  been  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley — had  I even  been  Marshal 
Beresford,  to  all  certainty  I’d  have  played  the  very  mischief  with 
his  Majesty’s  forces.  I’d  have  brought  my  rascals  to  where 
they’d  have  been  well  peppered.  That’s  certain. 

But  as,  luckily  for  the  sake  of  humanity  in  general,  and  tlie 
well-being  of  the  service  in  particular,  I was. merely  Lieutenant 
O’Malley,  14th  Light  Dragoons,  the  case  was  very  different. 
With  what  heavy  censure  did  I condemn  the  commander  of  the 
forces  in  my  own  mind,  for  his  want  of  daring  and  enterprise. 
Whole  nights  did  I pass  endeavoring  to  account  for  his  inactivity 
and  lethargy.  Why  he  did  not  seriatim  fall  upon  Soult,  Ney, 
and  Victor,  annihilate  the  French  forces,  and  sack  Madrid,  I 
looked  upon  as  little  less  than  a riddle;  and  yet,  there  he  waited, 
drilling,  exercising,  and  foraging,  as  if  we  were  at  Hounslow. 
Now,  most  fortunately,  here  again,  I was  not  Sir  Arthur. 

Something  in  this  frame  of  mind,  I was  taking  one  evening  a 
solitary  ride  some  miles  from  the  camp.  Without  noticing  the 
circumstance,  I had  entered  a little  mountain  tract,  when,  the 
ground  being  broken  and  uneven,  I dismounted  and  preceded 
afoot,  with  the  bridle  within  my  arm.  I had  not  gone  far  when 
the  clatter  of  a horse’s  hoofs  came  rapidly  toward  me,  and, 
though  there  was  something  startling  in  the  pace  over  such  a 
piece  of  road,  I never  lifted  my  eyes  as  the  horseman  came  up, 
but  continued  my  slow  progress  onward,  my  head  sunk  upon 
my  bosom. 

“ Holloa,  sir,”  cried  a sharp  voice,  whose  tones  seemed  some- 
how not  heard  for  the  first  time.  “I  looked  up,  saw  a slight 
figure,  closely  buttoned  up  in  a blue  horseman’s  cloak,  the  collar 
of  which  almost  entirely  hid  his  features;  he  wore  a plain 
cocked  hat  without  a feather,  and  was  mounted  upon  a sharp, 
wiry-looking  hack. 

“ Holloa,  sir!  What  regiment  do  you  belong  to?” 

As  I had  nothing  of  the  soldier  about  me,  save  a blue  foraging 
cap,  to  denote  my  corps,  the  tone  of  the  demand  was  little  cal- 
culated to  elicit  a very  polished  reply;  but,  preferring  as  most 
impertinent  to  make  no  answer,  I passed  on  without  speaking. 

“ Did  you  hear,  sir  ?”  cried  the  same  voice  in  a still  louder  key. 
“ What’s  your  regiment  ?’’ 

I now  turned  round,  resolved  to  question  the  other  in  turn, 


310 


(JH ARLES  (JM  ALLEY. 


when,  to  my  inexpressible  shame  and  confusion,  he  had  lowered 
the  collar  of  his  cloak,  and  I saw  the  features  of  Sir  Arthur 
Wellesley. 

‘‘  Fourteenth  Light  Dragoons,  sir,”  said  I,  blushing  as  I spoke. 

Have  you  not  read  the  general  order,  sir?  Why  have  you 
left  the  camp?” 

Now,  I had  not  read  a general  order,  nor  even  heard  one, 
for  above  a fortnight.  So  1 stammered  out  some  bungling 
answer. 

“To  your  quarters,  sir,  and  report  yourself  under  arrest. 
What’s  your  name  ?” 

“ Lieutenant  O’Malley,  sir.” 

“Well,  sir;  youi*  passion  for  rambling  shall  be  indulged.  You. 
shall  be  sent  to  the  rear  with  dispatches;  and,  as  the  army  is  in 
advance,  probably  the  lesson  may  be  servi cable.”  So  saying  he 
pressed  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  was  out  of  sight  in  a moment. 


CHAPTEE  LXV. 

TALAVERA. 

Having  been  dispatched  to  the  rear  with  orders  for  General 
Crawford,  I did  not  reach  Talavera  till  the  morning  of  the  28th. 

Two  days’  hard  fighting  had  left  the  contending  armies  still  face 
to  face,  and  without  any  decided  advantage  on  either  side. 

When  I arrived  upon  the  battle-field,  the  combat  of  the  morning 
was  over.  It  was  then  ten  o’clock,  and  the  troops  were  at  break- 
fast, if  the  few  ounces  of  wheat,  s*paringly  dealt  put  amongst  ; 

them,  could  be  dignified  by  that  name.  All  was,  however,  life 
and  animation  on  every  side;  the  merry  laugh,  the  passing  jest, 
the  careless  look,  bespoke  the  free  and  daring  character  of  the  ^ 
soldiery,  as  they  set  in  groups  upon  the  grass;  and,  except  when 
a fatigue  party  passed  by,  bearing  some  wounded  comrade  to 
the  rear,  no  touch  of  seriousness  rested  upon  their  -hardy  7 

features.  The  morning  was,  indeed,  a glorious  one;  a sky  of  } 

unclouded  blue  stretched  above  a landscape  unsurpassed  in  ' 

loveliness;  far  to  the  right  rolled  on,  in  placid  stream,  the  broad  j 

Tagus,  bathing  in  its  eddies  the  very  walls  of  Talavera,  the  } 

ground  from  which  to  our  position  gently  undulated  across  a 1 

plain  of  most  fertile  richness;  and  terminated  on  our  extreme  - 

left  in  a bold  height,  protected  in  front  by  a ravine,  and  fianked  ! 

by  a deep  and  rugged  valley.  ^ 

The  Spaniards  occupied  the  right  of  the  line,  connecting  with  | 

our  troops  at  a rising  ground,  upon  which  a strong  redoubt  had  ] 

been  hastily  thrown  up.  The  fourth  division  and  the  ^ards  1 

were  stationed  here;  next  to  whom  came  Cameron’s  brigade,  , | 
and  the  Germans,  Mackenzie  and  Hill  holding  the  extreme  left  i 

of  all,  which  might  be  called  the  key  of  our  position;  in  the  ^ 

valley  beneath  the  latter  were  picketed  three  cavalry  regiments,  ’ 

among  which  I was  not  long  in  detecting  my  gallant  friends  of 
the  Twenty -third. 

As  I rode  rapidly  past,  saluting  some  old  familiar  face  at  each 
moment,  I could  not  help  feeling  struck  at  the  evidence  of  the 
desperate  battle  that  so  lately  had  raged  there.  The  whole  j 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


m 


surface  of  the  hill  was  one  mass  of  dead  and  dying,  the  bear* 
skin  of  the  French  grenadier  lying  side  by  side  with  the  tartan 
of  the  Highlander;  deep  furrows  in  the  soil  showed  the  track  of 
the  furious  cannonade;  and  the  terrible  evidences  of  a bayonet 
charge  were  written  in  the  mangled  corpses  around. 

The  fight  had  been  maintained  without  any  intermission,  from 
daybreak  till  near  nine  o’clock  that  morning,  and  the  slaughter 
on  both  sides  was  dreadful.  The  mounds  of  fresh  earth  on  every 
side  told  of  the  soldier’s  sepulchre,  and  the  unceasing  tramp  of 
the  pioneer  struck  sadly  upon  the  ear  as  the  groans  of  the 
wounded  blended  with  the  funeral  sounds  around  them. 

In  front  were  drawn  up  the  dark  legions  of  France,  massive 
columns  of  infantry,  with  dense  bodies  of  artillery,  alternating 
along  the  line.  They,  too,  occupied  a gentle  rising  ground,  the 
valley  between  the  two  armies  being  crossed  half  way  by  a little 
rivulet;  and  here,  during  the  sultry  heat  of  the  morning,  the 
troops  on  both  sides  met  and  mingled  to  quench  their  thirst,  ere 
the  trumpet  again  called  them  to  the  slaughter. 

In  a small  ravine,  near  the  center  of  our  line,  were  drawn'up 
Cotton’s  brigade,  of  whom  the  fusileers  formed  a part. 

Directly  in  front  of  this  were  Campbell’s  brigade,  to  the  left  of 
Which,  upon  a gentle  slope,  the  staff  were  now  assembled. 
Thither,  accordingly,  I bent  my  steps,  and,  as  I came  up  the  lit- 
tle scarp,  found  myself  among  the  generals  of  division,  hastily 
summoned  by  Sir  Arthur  to  deliberate  upon  a forward  move- 
ment. The  council  lasted  scarcely  a quarter  of  an  hour,  and, 
when  I presented  myself  to  deliver  my  report,  all  the  dispositions 
for  the  battle  had  been  decided  upon,  and  the  commander  of  the 
forces,  seated  upon  the  grass  at  his  breakfast,  looked  by  far  the 
most  unconcerned  and  uninterested  man  I had  seen  that  morn- 
ing. 

He  turned  his  head  rapidly  as  I came  up,  and,  before  the  aid' 
de-camp  could  announce  me,  called  out: 

“Well,  sir,  what  news  of  the  reinforcements?” 

“ They  cannot  reach  Talavera  before  to-morrow,  sir.” 

“ Then,  before  that  we  shall  not  want  them.  That  will  do 
sir.” 

So  saying,  he  resumed  his  breakfast,  and  I retired,  more  than 
ever  struck  with  the  surprising  coolness  of  the  man  upon  whom 
no  disappointment  seemed  to  have  the  slightest  influence. 

I had  scarcely  rejoined  my  regiment,  and  was  giving  an  ac- 
count to  my  brother  oflacers  of  my  journey,  when  an  aid-de- 
camp  came  galloping  at  full  speed  down  the  line,  and  communi- 
cating with  the  several  commanding  oflicers  as  he  passed. 

What  might  be  the  nature  of  the  orders  we  could  not  guess  at, 
for  no  word  to  fall  in  followed;  and  yet  it  was  evident  something 
of  importance  was  at  hand.  Upon  the  hill,  where  the  staff  were 
assembled,  no  unusual  bustle  appeared,  and  we  could  see  the 
grey  cob  of  Sir  Arthur  still  being  led  up  and  down  by  the  orderly 
with  a dragoon’s  mantle  thrown  over  him.  The  soldiers,  over- 
come by  the  heat  and  fatigue  of  the  morning,  lay  stretched 
around  upon  the  grass,  and  everything  bespoke  a period  of  rest 
and  refreshment. 


312 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


“ We  are  going  to  advance,  depend  upon  it,”  said  a young 
officer  beside  me;  “ the  repulse  of  this  morning  has  been  a smart 
lesson  to  the  French,  and  Sir  Arthur  won’t  leave  them  without 
impressing  it  upon  them.” 

“ Hark!  what’s  that?”  cried  Baker.  “Listen.” 

As  he  spoke,  a strain  of  most  delicious  music  came  wafted 
across  the  plain.  It  was  from  the  band  of  a French  regiment, 
and,  mellowed  by  the  distance,  it  seemed,  in  the  calm  stillness 
of  the  morning  air,  like  something  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 
As  we  listened  the  notes  swelled  upward  yet  fuller,  and  one  by 
one  the  different  bands  seemed  to  join,  till  at  last  the  whole  air 
seemed  full  of  the  rich  flood  of  melody. 

We  could  now  perceive  the  stragglers  were  rapidly  falling 
back,  while  high  above  all  other  sounds  the  clanging  notes  of 
the  trumpet  were  heard  along  the  line.  The  hoarse  drum  now 
beat  to  arms,  and  soon  after  a brilliant  staff  rode  slowly  from 
between  two  dense  bodies  of  infantry,  and,  advancing  some 
distance  into  the  plain,  seemed  to  recon noiter  us;  a cloud  of 
Polish  cavalry,  distinguished  by  their  long  lances  and  floating 
banners,  loitered  in  their  rear. 

We  had  not  time  for  further  observation,  when  the  drums  on 
our  side  beat  to  arms,  and  the  hoarse  cry — “ Fall  in!  fall  in 
there,  lads!”  resounded  along  the  line. 

It  was  now  one  o’clock,  and  before  half  an  hour  the  troops 
had  resumed  the  position  of  the  morning,  and  stood  silent  and 
anxious  spectators  of  the  scene  before  them.  Upon  the  table- 
land, near  the  center  of  the  French  position,  we  could  descry 
the  gorgeous  tent  of  King  Joseph,  around  which  a large  and 
splendidly  accoutered  staff  was  seen  standing.  Here,  too,  the 
bustle  and  excitement  seemed  considerable,  for  to  this  point  the 
dark  masses  of  the  infantry  seemed  converging  from  the 
extreme  right;  and  here  we  could  perceive  the  royal  guards  and 
the  reserve  now  forming  a column  of  attack. 

From  the  crest  of  the  hill  down  to  the  very  valley  the  dark, 
dense  ranks  extended;  their  flanks  protected  by  the  powerful 
artillery  and  deep  masses  of  heavy  cavalry.  It  was  evident 
that  the  attack  was  not  to  commence  on  our  side,  and  the  great- 
est and  most  intense  anxiety  pervaded  us  as  to  what  part  of  our 
line  was  first  to  be  assailed. 

Meanwhile,  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley,  who,  from  the  heights,  had 
been  patiently  observing  the  field  of  battle,  dispatched  an  aid- 
de-camp  at  full  gallop  tow^ard  Campbell’s  brigade,  posted  di- 
rectly in  advance  of  us.  As  he  passed  swiftly  along,  he  called 
out:  “ You’re  in  for  it,  14th I You’ll  have  to  open  the  ball  to- 
day!” 

Scarcely  were  the  words  spouen,  when  a si^al  gun  from  the 
French  boomed  heavily  through  the  still  air.  The  last  echo 
was  growing  fainter,  and  the  heavy  smoke  breaking  into  mist, 
when  the  most  deafening  thunder  ever  my  ears  heard  came 
pealing  around  us — eighty  pieces  of  artillery  had  opened  upon  us, 
sending  a very  tempest  of  bullets  upon  our  line.  While,  midst 
the  smoke  and  dust,  we  could  see  the  light  troops  advancing  at 


CHARLES  OWALLEY, 


313 


a run,  followed  by  the  broad  and  massive  columns  in  all  the  ter- 
ror and  majesty  of  war. 

“ What  a splendid  attack  I how  gallantly  they  come  on!”  cried 
an  old  veteran  officer  beside  me,  forgetting  all  rivalry  in  his 
noble  admiration  of  our  enemy. 

The  intervening  space  was  soon  passed,  and  the  tirailleurs 
falling  back  as  the  column  came  on,  the  towering  masses  bore 
down  upon  CampbelFs  division  with  a loud  cry  of  defiance.  Si- 
lently and  steadily  the  English  infantry  awaited  the  attack,  and, 
returning  the  fire  with  one  withering  volley,  were  ordered  to 
charge.  Scarcely  were  the  bayonets  lowered,  when  the  head  of 
the  advancing  column  broke  and  fled ; while  Mackenzie's  brigade, 
overlapping  the  flank,  pushed  boldly  forward,  and  a scene  of 
frightful  carnage  followed.  For  a moment  a hand-to-hand  com- 
bat was  sustained;  but  the  unbroken  files  and  impregnable 
bayonets  of  the  English  conquered,  and  the  French  fled  back, 
leaving  six  guns  behind  them. 

The  gallant  enemy  were  troops  of  tried  and  proved  courage, 
and  scarcely  had  they  retreated  when  they  again  formed;  but 
just  as  they  prepared  to  come  forward,  a tremendous  shower 
of  grape  opened  upon  them  from  our  batteries,  while  a cloud  of 
Spanish  horse  assailed  them  in  flank,  and  nearly  cut  them  in 
pieces. 

While  this  was  passing  on  the  right,  a tremendous  attack 
menaced  the  hill  upon  which  our  left  was  posted.  Two  power- 
ful columns  of  French  infantry,  supported  by  some  regiments 
of  light  cavalry,  came  steadily  forward  to  the  attack.  Anson’s 
brigade  were  ordered  to  charge. 

Away  they  went  at  top  speed;  but  had  not  gone  above  a few 
hundred  yards,  when  they  were  suddenly  arrested  by  a deep 
chasm;  here  the  German  hussars  pulled  short  up;  but  the 
Twenty-third  dashing  impetuously  forward,  a scene  of  terrific 
carnage  ensued — men  and  horses  rolling  indiscriminately  togeth- 
er under  a withering  fire  from  the  French  squares.  Even  here, 
however,  British  valor  quailed  not;  for  Major  Francis Ponsonby, 
forming  all  who  came  up,  rode  boldly  upon  a brigade  of  French 
chasseurs  in  the  rear.  Victor,  who  from  the  first  had  watched 
the  movement,  at  once  dispatched  a lancer  regiment  against 
them,  and  then  these  brave  fellows  were  aosolutely  cut  to  atoms; 
the  few  who  escaped  having  passed  through  the  French  col- 
umns, and  reached  Bassecow’s  Spanish  division  on  the  far  right. 

During  this  time  the  hill  was  again  assailed,  and  even  more 
desperately  than  before,  while  Victor  himself  led  on  the  fourth 
corps  to  an  attack  upon  our  right  and  center. 

The  guards  waited  without  flinching  the  impetuous  rush  of 
the  advancing  columns;  and,  when  at  length  within  a short 
distance,  dashed  forward  with  the  bayonet,  driving  everything 
before  them.  ^ The  French  fell  back  upon  their  sustaining  masses, 
and,  rallying  in  an  instant,  again  came  forward,  supported  by  a 
tremendous  fire  from  their  batteries.  The  guards  drew  back, 
and  the  German  legion,  suddenly  thrown  into  confusion,  began 
to  retire  in  disorder.  This  was  the  most  critical  moment  of  the 
day;  for  although  successful  upon  the  extreme  right  and  left  of 


314 


chahles  om alley. 


our  line,  our  center  was  absolutely  broken.  Just  at  this  moment 
Gordon  rode  up  to  our  brigade;  his  face  was  pale  and  his  look 
flurried  and  excited. 

“ The  Forty-eighth  are  coming,  here  they  are;  support  them, 
Fourteenth.” 

These  few  words  were  all  he  spoke,  and  the  next  moment  the 
measured  tread  of  a column  was  heard  behind  us.  On  they 
came,  like  one  man,  their  compact  and  dense  formation  looking 
like  some  massive  wall.  Wheeling  by  companies,  they  suffered 
the  guards  and  Germans  to  retire  fehind  them,  and  then  reform- 
ing into  line,  they  rushed  forward  with  the  bayonet.  Our  artil- 
lery opened  with  a deafening  thunder  behind  them,  and  then  we 
were  ordered  to  charge. 

We  came  on  at  a trot;  the  guards,  who  had  now  recovered  their 
formation,  cheering  us  on  as  we  proceeded ; the  smoke  of  the  can- 
nonade obscured  everything  until  we  had  advanced  some  dis- 
tance: but  just  as  we  emerged  beyond  the  line  of  the  gallant 
Forty-eighth,  the  splendid  panorama  of  the  battle  field  broke 
suddenly  upon  us. 

“Charge!  forward!”  cried  the  hoarse  voice  of  our  Colonel, 
and  we  were  upon  them.  The  French  infantry,  already  broken 
by  the  withering  musketry  of  our  people,  gave  way  before  us, 
and,  unable  to  form  a square,  retired  fighting,  but  in  confusion, 
and  with  a tremendous  loss,  to  their  position.  One  glorious 
cheer  from  left  to  right  of  our  line  proclaimed  the  victory,  while 
a deafening  discharge  of  artillery  from  the  French  replied  to 
this  defiance,  and  the  battle  was  over.  Had  the  Spanish  army 
been  capable  of  a forward  movement,  our  success  at  this  mo- 
ment would  have  been  much  more  considerable,  but  they  did 
not  dare  to  change  their  position,  and  the  repulse  of  our  enemy 
was  destined  to  be  all  our  glory.  The  French,  however,  suf- 
fered much  more  severely  than  we  did,  and  retiring  during  the 
night,  fell  back  behind  the  Alberche,  leaving  us  the  victory  and 
the  battle-field. 


CHAPTER  LXVT. 

NIGHT  AFTER  TALAVERA. 

The  night  which  followed  the  battle  was  a sad  one.  Through 
the  darkness,  and  under  a fast-falling  rain,  the  hours  were  spent 
in  searching  for  our  wounded  comrades  amid  the  heap  of  slain 
upon  the  field;  and  the  glimmering  of  the  lanterns  as  they  flick- 
ered far  and  near  across  the  wide  plain,  bespoke  the  track  of  the 
fatigue  parties  in  their  mournful  round;  while  the  groans  of  the 
wounded  rose  amid  the  silence  with  an  accent  of  heart-rending 
anguish;  so  true  was  it,  as  our  great  commander  said,  “ there  is 
nothing  more  sad  than  a victory,  except  a defeat  ” 

Around  our  bivouac  fires,  the  feeling  of  sorrowful  depression 
was  also  evident.  We  had  gained  a great  victory,  it  was  true; 
we  had  beaten  the  far-famed  legions  of  France  upon  a ground 
of  their  own  choosing,  led  by  the  most  celebrated  of  their  mar- 
shals, and  under  the  eyes  of  the  Emperor’s  own  brother — but 
still  we  felt  all  the  h^^^^ardous  daring  of  our  position,  and  had  no 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


S15 


confidence  whatever  in  the  courage  or  discipline  of  our  allies* 
and  we  saw  that  in  the  very  melee  of  the  battle  the  efforts  of  the 
enemy  were  directed  almost  exclusively  against  our  line,  so 
confidently  did  they  undervalue  the  efforts  of  the  Spanish 
troops.  Morning  broke  at  length,  and  scarcely  was  the  heavy 
mist  clearing  before  the  red  sunlight,  when  the  sounds  of  fife 
and  drum  were  heard  from  a distant  part  of  the  field.  The 
notes  swelled  or  sunk  as  the  breeze  rose  or  fell,  and  many  a con- 
jecture was  hazarded  as  to  their  meaning,  for  no  object  was 
well  visible  for  more  than  a few  hundred  yards  off.  Gradually, 
however,  they  grew  nearer  and  nearer,  and  at  length  as  the  air 
cleared,  and  the  hazy  vapor  evaporated,  the  bright  scarlet  uni» 
form  of  a British  regiment  was  seen  advancing  at  a quick  step. 

As  they  came  nearer,  the  well-known  march  of  the  gallant 
Forty- third  was  recognized  by  some  of  our  people,  and  imme- 
diately the  rumor  flew  like  ligldning;  “ It  is  Crawford’s  brig- 
ade;” and  so  it  was — the  noble  fellow  had  marched  his  division 
the  unparalleled  distance  of  sixty  English  miles  in  twenty-seven 
hours.  Over  a burning,  sandy  soil,  exposed  to  a raging  sun, 
without  rations,  almost  without  water,  these  gallant  troops 
pressed  on  in  the  unwearied  hope  of  sharing  the  glory  of  the 
battle-field.  One  tremendous  cheer  welcomed  the  head  of  the 
column  as  they  marched  past,  and  continued  till  the  last  file 
had  deployed  before  us. 

As  these  splendid  regiments  moved  by,  we  could  not  help 
feeling  what  signal  service  they  might  have  rendered  us  but  a 
few  hours  before;  their  soldier-like  bearing,  their  high  and  ef- 
fective state  of  discipline,  their  well-known  reputation,  were  m 
every  mouth;  and  I scarcely  think  that  any  corps  who  stood  the 
brunt  of  the  miglity  battle  were  the  subject  of  more  encomium 
than  the  brave  fellows  who  had  just  joined  us= 

The  mournful  duties  of  the  night  wore  soon  forgotten  in  the 
gay  and  buoyant  sounds  on  every  side.  Congratulations,  shak- 
ing of  hands,  kind  inquiries  went  round;  and,  as  we  looked  to 
the  hilly  ground  where  so  lately  were  drawn  up  in  battle  array 
the  dark  columns  of  our  enemy,  and  where  not  one  sentinel  now 
remained,  the  proud  feeling  of  our  victory  came  home  to  our 
hearts  with  the  ever-thrilling  thought:  “ What  will  they  say  at 
home  ?” 

I was  standing  amid  a group  of  my  brother  officers,  when  I re- 
ceived an  order  from  the  Colonel  to  ride  down  to  Talavera  for 
the  return  of  our  wounded,  as  the  arrival  of  the  Commander-in- 
Chief  was  momentarily  looked  for.  I threw  myself  upon  my 
horse,  and  setting  out  at  a brisk  pace,  soon  reached  the  gates. 

On  entering  the  town,  I was  obliged  to  dismount  and  proceed 
on  foot.  The  streets  were  completely  filled  with  people,  thread- 
ing their  way  among  wagons,  forage -carts,  and  sick-litters;  here 
was  a booth  filled  with  all  imaginable  wares  for  sale;  there  a 
temporary  gin  shop,  established  beneath  a broken  baggage 
wagon;  here  might  be  seen  a merry  party  throwing  dice  for  a 
turkey  or  a kid — there  a wounded  man,  with  bloodless  cheek 
and  tottering  step,  inquiring  the  road  to  the  hospital;  the  accents 
of  agony  mingled  with  drunken  chorus,  and  the  sharp  crack  of 


316 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


the  Provost-Marshal’s  whip  was  heard  above  the  boisterous 
reveling  of  the  debauchee.  All  was  confusion,  bustle,  and  ex- 
citement. 

The  staff-officer,  with  his  flowing  plume  and  glittering  epau- 
lets, wended  his  way  on  foot  amid  the  din  and  bustle  unno- 
ticed and  uncared  for;  while  the  little  drummer  amused  an  ad- 
miring audience  of  simple  country  folk  by  some  wonderfu  I tale 
of  the  great  victory. 

My  passage  through  this  dense  mass  was  necessarily  a slow 
one.  No  one  made  way  for  another;  discipline  for  the  time  was 
at  an  end,  and  with  it  all  respect  for  rank  or  position.  It  was 
what  nothing  of  mere  vicissitudes  in  the  fortune  of  war  can 
equal — the  wild  orgies  of  an  army  the  day  after  a battle. 

On  turning  the  corner  of  a narrow  street,  my  attention  was 
attracted  by  a crowd  which,  gathered  round  a small  fountain, 
seemed,  as  well  as  I could  perceive,  to  witness  some  proceeding 
with  a more  than  ordinary  interest.  Exclamations  in  Portu- 
guese expressive  of  surprise  and  admiration  were  mingled  with 
English  oaths  and  Irish  ejaculations,  while  high  above  all  rose 
other  sounds — the  cries  of  some  one  in  pain  and  suffering.  Forc- 
ing my  way  through  the  dense  group,  I at  length  reached  the 
interior  of  the  crowd,  when,  to  my  astonishment,  I perceived  a 
short,  fat,  punchy-looking  man,  stripped  of  his  coat  and  waist- 
coat, and  with  his  shirt-sleeves  rolled  up  to  his  shoulders,  busily 
employed  in  operating  upon  a wounded  soldier.  Amputation 
knives,  tourniquets,  bandages,  and  all  other  imaginable  instru- 
ments for  giving  and  alleviating  torture  were  strewed  about  him, 
and,  from  the  arrangement  and  preparation,  it  was  clear  that  he 
had  pitched  upon  this  spot  as  a hospital  for  his  patients.  While 
he  continued  to  perform  his  functions  with  singular  speed  and 
dexterity,  he  never  for  a moment  ceased  a running  fire  of  Small- 
talk, now  addressed  to  the  patient  in  particular,  now  to  the 
crowd  at  large — sometimes  a soliloquy  to  himself,  and,  not  un- 
frequently,  abstractedly  upon  things  in  general.  These  little 
specimens  of  oratory,  delivered  in  such  a place  at  such  a time, 
and,  not  least  of  all  in  the  richest  imaginable  Cork  accent,  were 
sufficient  to  arrest  my  steps,  and  1 stopped  for  some  time  to  ob- 
serve him . 

The  patient,  who  was  a large,  powerfully  built  fellow,  had  been 
wounded  in  both  legs  by  the  explosion  of  a shell,  but  not  so 
severely  as  to  require  amputation. 

“Does  that  plaze  you,  then?”  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  applied 
«ome  powerful  caustic  to  a wounded  vessel,  “ there’s  no  satisfy- 
ing the  like  of  you.  Quite  warm  and  comfortable  ye’ll  be  this 
morning  after  that.  I saw  that  same  shell  coming,  and  I called 
out  to  Maurice  Blake,  ‘ by  your  leave,  Maurice,  let  that  fellow 
pass,  he’s  in  a hurry;’  and,  faith,  I said  to  myself,  ‘there’s  more 
where  you  came  from;  you’re  not  an  only  child,  and  I never 
liked  the  family  ’ — what  are  ye  grinning  for,  ye  brown  thieves  ?” 
this  was  addressed  to  the  Portuguese — “There,  now,  keep  the 
limb  quiet  and  easy.  Upon  my  conscience,  if  that  shell  fell  into 
ould  Lundy  Foot's  shop  this  morning,  there’d  be  plenty  of  sneez- 
ing in  Sackville  street.  Who’s  next?”  said  he,  looking  round 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


817 


W'th  an  expression  that  seemed  to  threaten  that  if  no  wounded 
man  was  ready,  he  was  quite  prepared  to  carve  out  a patient 
for  himself.  Not  exactly  relishing  the  invitation  in  the  search- 
ing that  accompanied  it,  I backed  my  way  through  the  crowd, 
and  continued  my  path  toward  the  hospital. 

Here  the  scene  which  presented  itself  was  shocking  beyond 
belief — frightful  and  ghastly  wounds  from  shells  and  cannon 
shot  were  seen  on  all  sides,  every  imaginable  species  of  suffering 
that  man  is  capable  of  was  presented  to  view;  while,  amid  the 
dead  and  dying,  operations  the  most  painful  were  proceeding 
with  a haste  and  bustle  that  plainly  showed  how  many  more 
waited  their  turn  for  similar  offices.  The  stairs  were  blocked  up 
with  fresh  arrivals  of  wounded  men,  and  even  upon  the  corri- 
dors and  landing-places,  the  sick  were  strewn  on  all  sides. 

I hurried  to  that  part  of  the  building  where  my  own  people 
were,  and  soon  learned  that  our  loss  was  confined  to  about  four- 
teen wounded;  five  of  them^were  officers;  but,  fortunately,  we 
lost  not  a man  of  our  gallant  fellows,  and  Talavera  brought  us 
no  mourning  for  a comrade  to  damp  the  exultation  we  felt  in 
our  victory. 


CHAPTER  LXVII. 

THE  OUTPOST. 

During  the  three  days  which  succeeded  the  battle,  all  things 
remained  as  they  were  before;  the  enemy  had  gradually  with- 
drawn all  his  forces,  aiid  our  most  advanced  pickets  never  came 
in  sight  of  a French  detachment.  Still,  although  we  had  gained 
a great  victory,  our  situation  was  anything  but  flattering.  The 
most  strenuous  exertions  of  the  commissariat  were  barely  suffi- 
cient to  provision  the  troops;  and  we  had  even  already  but  too 
much  experience  of  how  little  trust  or  reliance  could  be  reposed 
in  the  most  lavish  promises  of  our  allies.  It  was  true,  our  spirits 
failed  us  not,  but  it  was  rather  from  an  implicit  and  never* fail- 
ing confidence  in  the  resources  of  our  great  leader,  than  that 
any  amongst  us  could  see  his  way  through  the  dense  cloud  of 
difficulty  and  danger  that  seemed  to  envelop  us  on  every  side. 

To  add  to  the  pressing  emergency  of  our  position,  we  learned 
on  the  evening  of  the  31st  that  Soult  was  advancing  from  the 
north,  and  at  the  head  of  fourteen  thousand  chosen  troops,  in 
full  march  upon  Placentia;  thus  threatening  our  rear,  at  the 
very  moment,  too,  when  any  further  advance  was  evidently 
impossible. 

On  the  morning  of  the  first  of  August,  I was  ordered  with  a 
small  party  to  push  forward  in  the  direction  of  the  Alberche, 
upon  the  left  bank  of  which  it  was  reported  that  the  French 
were  again  concentrating  their  forces,  and,  if  possible,  to  obtain 
information  as  to  their  future  movements.  Meanwhile,  the  army 
was  about  to  fall  back  upon  Oropesa,  there  to  await  Soult’s  ad- 
vance, and,  if  necessary,  to  givt?  him  battle,  Cuesta  engaging 
with  his  Spaniards  to  secure  Talavera,  with  its  stores  and  hospi- 
tals, against  any  present  movement  from  Victor. 

After  a hearty  breakfast,  and  a kind  “Good-bye!”  from  my 


818 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


brother  officers,  I set  out.  My  road  along  the  Tagus  for  several 
miles  of  the  way  was  a narrow  path  scarped  from  the  rocky 
ledge  of  the  river,  shaded  by  rich  olive  plantations  that  threw  a 
friendly  shade  over  us  during  the  noonday  heat. 

We  traveled  along  silently,  sparing  our  cattle  from  time  to 
time,  but  endeavoring  ere  nightfall  to  reach  Torrijos,  in  which 
village  we  have  heard  several  French  soldiers  were  in  hospital. 
Our  information  leading  us  to  believe  them  very  inadequately 
guarded,  we  hoped  to  make  some  prisoners,  from  whom  the  in- 
formation we  sought  could  in  all  likelihood  be  obtained.  More 
than  once  during  the  day  our  road  was  crossed  by  parties  simi- 
tar to  our  own,  sent  forward  to  reconnoiter,  and  toward  evening 
a party  of  the  Twenty- third  Light  Dragoons  returning  toward 
Talavera,  informed  us  that  the  French  had  retired  from  Torrijos, 
which  was  now  occupied  by  an  English  detachment,  under  my 
old  friend  O'Shaughnessy. 

I need  not  say  with  what  pleasure  I heard  this  piece  of  news, 
and  eagerly  pressed  forward,  preferring  the  warm  shelter  and 
hospitable  ])oard  the  Major  was  certain  of  possessing,  to  the 
cold  blast  and  dripping  grass  of  a bivouac.  Night,  however,  fell 
fast;  darkness,  without  an  intervening  twilight,  set  in,  and  we 
lost  our  way.  A bleak  table  land,  with  here  and  there  a stunted, 
leafless  tree,  was  all  that  we  could  discern  by  the  pale  light  of  a 
new  moon.  An  apparently  interminable  heath,  uncrossed  by 
path  or  foot-track,  was  before  us,  and  our  jaded  cattle  seemed 
to  feel  the  dreary  uncertainty  of  the  prospect  as  sensitiv^ely  as 
ourselves — stumbling  and  over-reaching  at  every  step. 

Cursing  my  ill-luck  for  such  a misadventure,  and  once  more 
picturing  to  my  mind  the  bright  blazing  hearth  and  smoking 
supper  I had  hoped  to  partake  of,  I called  a halt,  and  prepared 
to  pass  the  night.  My  decision  was  hastened  by  finding  myself 
suddenly  in  a little  grove  of  pine  trees,  whose  shelter  was  not 
to  be  despised;  besides  that,  our  bivouac  fires  were  now  sure  of 
being  supplied. 

t It  was  fortunate  the  night  was  fine,  though  dark.  In  a calm, 
still  atmosphere,  when  not  a leaf  moved  nor  a branch  stirred, 
we  picketed  our  tired  horses,  and,  shaking  out  their  forage, 
heaped  up  in  the  midst  a blazing  fire  of  the  fir  tree.  Our  hum- 
ble supper  was  procured,  and  even  with  the  still  lingering 
reverie  of  the  Major  and  his  happier  destiny,  I began  to  feel 
comfortable. 

My  troopers,  who  probably  had  not  been  fiattering  their  im- 
agination with  such  gourmand  reflections  and  views,  sat  happily 
around  their  cheerful  blaze,  chatting  over  the  great  battle  they 
had  so  lately  witnessed,  and  mingling  their  stories  of  some  com- 
rade’s prowess  with  sorrow  for  the  dead  and  proud  hopes  for 
the  future.  In  the  midst,  upon  his  knees,  beside  the  fiame,  was 
Mike,  disputing,  detailing,  guessing,  and  occasionally  inventing 
— ^all  his  arguments  only  tending  to  one  view  of  the  late  victory 
— “ that  it  was  the  Lord’s  mercy  the  most  of  the  Forty-eighth  was 
Irish,  or  we  wouldn’t  be  sitting  here  now!” 

Despite  Mr.  Free’s  conversational  gifts,  however,  his  audience, 
9ne  by  one,  dropped  off  in  sleep,  leaving  him  sole  monarch  oi 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


m 


watch-fire,  and — what  he  thought  more  of— a small  brass 
kettle  nearly  full  of  brandy  and  water.  This  latter  I perceived 
he  produced  when  all  was  tranquil,  and  seemed,  as  he  cast  a 
furtive  glance  around,  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  the  only 
company  present. 

Lying  some  yards  off,  I watched  him  for  about  an  hour,  as  he 
sat  rubbing  his  hands  before  the  blaze,  or  lifting  the  little  vessel 
to  his  lips;  his  droll  features  ever  and  anon  seeming  acted  upon 
by  some  passing  dream  of  former  de^ulment,  as  he  smiled  and 
muttered  some  sentences  in  an  under  voice.  Sleep  at  length 
overpowered  me;  but  my  last  waking  thoughts  were  haunted 
with  a singular  ditty  by  which  Mike  accompanied  himself,  as  he 
kept  burnishing  the  buttons  of  \ny  jacket  before  the  fire,  now 
and  then  interrupting  the  melody  by  a recourse  to  the  copper. 

“ Well,  well;  you’re  clean  enough  now,  and  sure  it’s  little  good 
brightening  you  up,  when  you’ll  be  as  bad  to-morrow.  Like 
him — like  his  father’s  son;  devil  a lie  in  it.  Nothing  would 
serve  him  but  his  best  blue  jacket  to  fight  in,  as  if  the  French 
were  particular  what  they  killed  us  in.  Pleasant  trade,  upon 
my  conscience!  Well,  never  mind.  That’s  beautiful  sperets, 
anyhow.  Your  health,  Mickey  Free;  it’s  yourself  that  stands 
to  me,” 

^‘It’s  little  for  glory  I care; 

Sure  ambition  is  only  a fable; 

I’d  as  soon  be  myself  as  lord  mayor, 

With  lashings  of  drink  on  the  table, 

I like  to  lie  down  in  the  sun, 

And  drame  when  myfaytiores  is  scorchin’. 

That  when  I’m  too  ould  for  more  fun, 

Why,  I’ll  marry  a wife  with  a fortune. 

“ And  in  winter,  with  bacon  and  eggs. 

And  a place  at  the  turf  fire  basking, 

Take  my  punch  as  I roasted  my  legs. 

Oh!  the  devil  a more  I’d  be  asking. 

For  haven’t  I di,janius  for  work — 

It  was  never  the  gift  of  the  Bradies-' 

But  I’d  make  a most  iligant  Turk, 

For  I’m  fond  of  tobacco  and  ladies.” 

This  confounded  refrain  kept  ringing  through  my  dream,  and 
“ tobacco  and  ladies  ” mingled  with  my  thoughts  of  storm  and 
battle  field  long  after  their  very  gifted  author  had  composed 
himself  to  slumber. 

Sleep,  and  sound  sleep,  came  at  length,  and  hours  elapsed  ere 
I awoke.  When  I did  so,  my  fire  was  reduced  to  its  last  embers. 
Mike,  like  the  others,  had  sunk  in  slumber,  and  amid  the  gray 
dawn  that  precedes  the  morning,  I could  just  perceive  the  dark 
shadows  of  my  troopers  as  they  lay  in  groups  around. 

The  fatigues  of  the  previous  days  had  so  completely  overcome 
me,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  I could  arouse  myself  so  far  as  to 
heap  fresh  logs  upon  the  fire.  This  I did,  with  my  eyes  half 
closed,  and  in  that  listless,  dreamy  state  which  seems  the  twi- 
light of  sleep. 

J[  managed  so  much,  however,  and  was  returning  to  my  coucii 


m 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 

\ 

Ix^neath  a tree,  when  suddenly  an  object  presented  itself  to  my 
eyes  that  absolutely  rooted  me  to  the  spot.  At  about  twenty  oy 
thirty  yards  distant,  where  but  the  moment  before  the  long  line 
of  horizon  terminated  the  view,  there  now  stood  a huge  figure 
of  some  ten  or  twelve  feet  in  height — two  heads  which  sur- 
mounted this  colossal  personage,  moved  alternately  from  side  to 
side,  while  several  arms  waved  loosely  to  and  fro  in  the  most 
strange  and  uncouth  manner.  My  first  impression  was  that  a 
dream  had  conjured  up  this  distorted  image;  but  when  I had 
assured  myself  by  repeated  pinchings  and  shakings  that  I was 
really  awake,  still  it  remained  there.  I was  never  much  given 
to  believe  in  ghosts;  but  even  had  I been  so,  this  strange  appari- 
tion must  have  puzzled  me  as  much  as  ever,  for  it  could  not  have 
been  the  representative  of  anything  I ever  heard  of  before. 

A vague  suspicion  that  some  French  trickery  was  concerned, 
induced  me  to  challenge  it  in  French;  so,  without  advancing  a 
step,  I hallooed  out,  “ Qui  va  la 

My  voice  aroused  a sleeping  soldier,  who,  springing  up  beside 
me,  had  his  carbine  at  the  cock,  while,  equally  thunderstruck 
with  myself,  he  gazed  at  the  monster. 

“ Qai  va  la  shouted  I again,  and  no  answer  was  returned, 
■when  suddenly  the  huge  object  wheeled  rapidly  around,_and, 
without  waiting  for  any  further  parley,  made  for  the  thicket. 

The  tramp  of  a horse’s  feet  now  assured  me  as  to  the  nature 
of  at  least  part  of  the  spectacle,  when  click  went  the  trigger  be- 
hind  me,  and  the  trooper’s  ball  rushed  whistling  through  the 
brushwood.  In  a moment  the  whole  party  were  up  and  stir- 
ring. 

“ This  way,  lads!”  cried  I,  as,  drawing  my  saber,  I dashed  into 
the  pine  wood. 

For  a few  moments  all  was  dark  as  midnight;  but  as  we  pro- 
ceeded further  we  came  upon  a little  open  space,  which  com- 
manded the  plain  beneath  for  a great  extent. 

“ There  it  goes,”  said  one  of  the  men,  pointing  to  a narrow- 
beaten  patb.in  which  the  tall  figure  moved,  at  a slow  and  stately 
pace,  while  still  the  same  wild  gestures  of  heads  and  limbs  con- 
tinued. 

“Don’t  fire,  men;  don’t  fire!”  I cried;  “but  follow  me,”  as  1 
»et  forward  as  hard  as  I could. 

As  we  neared  it,  the  frantic  gesticulations  grew  more  and 
more  remarkable,  while  some  stray  words  which  we  half  caught 
sounded  like  English  in  our  ears.  We  were  now  within  pistol 
shot  distance,  when  suddenly  the  horse — for  that  much,  at  least, 
we  were  assured  of — stumbled  and  fell  forward,  precipitating 
the  remainder  of  the  object  headlong  into  the  road. 

In  a second  we  were  upon  the  spot,  when  the  first  sounds 
which  greeted  me  were  the  following,  uttered  in  an  accent  by 
no  means  new  to  me: 

“Oh!  blessed  Virgin!  wasn’t  it  yourself  that  threw  me  in  the 
mud,  or  my  nose  was  done  for!  Shaugh,  Shaugh,  my  boy, 
since  we  are  taken,  tip  them  the  blarney,  and  say  we’re  geaer- 
als  of  division,” 


CHARLES  (SMALLEY.  ' m 

1 need  not  say  with  what  a burst  of  laughter  I received  this 
very  original  declaration. 

“ I ought  to  know  that  laugh,”  cried  a voice  I at  once  knew 
to  be  my  friend  O’Shaughnessy’s.  “ Are  you  Charles  O’Malley 
by  any  chance  in  life  ?” 

“The  same,  Major;  and  delighted  to  meet  you;  though,  faith, 
we  were  near  giving  you  a rather  warm  reception.  What  in 
the  devil’s  name  did  you  represent  just  now  ?” 

“ Ask  Maurice,  there,  bad  luck  to  him!  I wish  the  devil  had 
him  when  he  persuaded  me  into  it.” 

“ Introduce  me  to  your  friend,”  replied  the  other,  rubbing  his 
shins  as  he  spoke.  ‘ ‘ Mr.  O’Mealey  ” — so  he  called  me — ‘ ‘ I think ; 
happy  to  meet  you;  my  mother  was  a Eyan,  of  Killdooley,  mar- 
ried to  a first  cousin  of  your  father’s  before  she  took  Mr.  Quill, 
my  respected  progenitor.  I’m  Dr.  Quill  of  the  Forty-eighth, 
more  commonly  called  Maurice  Quill.  Tare  and  ages!  how  sore 
my  back  is.  It  was  all  the  fault  of  the  baste,  Mr.  O’Mealey;  we 
set  out  in  search  of  you  this  morning,  to  bring  you  back  with  us 
to  Torrijos,  but  we  fell  in  with  a very  pleasant  funeral  at  Barca- 
venter,  and  joined  them;  they  invited  us,  I may  say,  to  spend 
the  day,  and  a very  jovial  day  it  was.  I was  a chief  mourner, 
and  carried  a big  candle  through  the  village,  in  consideration  of 
as  fine  a meat  pie,  and  as  much  lush  as  my  grief  permitted  me 
to  indulge  in,  afterward.  But,  my  dear  sir,  when  it  was  all 
finished,  we  found  ourselves  nine  miles  from  our  quarters; 
and,  as  neither  of  us  were  in  a very  befitting  condition  for 
pedestrian  exercise,  we  stole  one  of  the  leaders  out  of  the  hearse 
— velvet,  plumes  and  all — and  set  off  home. 

“ When  we  came  upon  your  party,  we  were  not  over  clear 
whether  you  were  English,  Portuguese,  or  French;  and  that  is 
the  reason  I called  out  to  you,  ‘ God  save  all  here,’  in  Irish;  your 
polite  answer  was  a shot,  which  struck  the  old  horse  on  the 
knee,  and  although  we  wheeled  about  in  double  quick,  we  never 
could  get  him  out  of  his  professional  habits  on  the  road.  He  had 
a strong  notion  he  was  engaged  in  another  funeral — as  he  was 
very  likely  to  be;  and  the  devil  a bit  faster  than  a dead  march 
could  we  get  him  to,  with  all  our  thrashing.  Orderly  time,  for 
men  in  a hurry,  with  a whole  platoon  blazing  away  behind 
them!  but  long  life  to  the  cavalry;  they  merit  anything.” 

While  he  continued  to  run  on  in  this  manner,  we  reached  our 
watch-fire,  and  what  was  my  surprise  to  discover  in  my  newly 
made  acquaintance,  the  worthy  Doctor  I had  seen  a day  or  two 
before  operating  at  the  fountain  at  Talavera. 

“ WeU,  Mr.  O’Mealey,”  said  he  as  he  seated  himself  before  the 
blaze;  “what  Is  the  state  of  the  larder?  Anything  savory— 
anything  drink-inspiring  to  be  had  ?” 

“ I fear.  Doctor,  my  fare  is  of  the  very  humblest;  but  still ” 

‘What  are  the  fluids,  Charley  ?”  cried  the  Major;  “ the  cruel 
performance  I have  been  enacting  on  that  accursed  beast  has 
left  me  in  a fever.” 

“This  was  a pigeon  pie,  formerly,”  said  Dr.  Quill,  investiga- 
ting the  ruined  walls  of  a pastry;  “ and — but  come,  here’s  a duck; 


CBAELES  aMALLET. 


and,  if  my  nose  deceives  me  not,  a very  tolerable  ham.  Peter— 
Larry — Patsy — what’s  the  name  of  you  familiar  there  ?” 

“Mickey — Mickey  Free.” 

“ Mickey  Free,  then;  come  here,  avick!  Devise  a little  drink, 
my  son — not  of  the  weakest — no  lemon — hot!  You  under- 
stand, hot!  That  chap  has  an  eye  for  punch;  there’s  no  mistak- 
ing an  Irish  fellow;  nature  has  endowed  them  richly — fine  feat- 
ures, and  a beautiful  absorbent  system!  that’s  the  gift,  just  look 
at  him,  blowing  up  the  fire — isn’t  he  a picture?  Well,  0’Mealey„ 
I was  fretting  that  we  hadn’t  you  up  at  Torrijos;  we  were  en- 
joying life  very  respectably;  we  established  a little  system  of 
small  tithes  upon  fowl — sheep — pigs’  heads  and  wine  skins,  that 
throve  remarkably  for  the  time.  Here’s  the  lush!  Put  it  down 
there,  Micky,  in  the  middle;  that’s  right.  Your  health,  Shaugh. 
O’Mealey,  here’s  a troop  to  you;  and  in  the  meantime  I’ll  give 
you  a chant: 

“ Come,  ye  jovial  souls,  don’t  over  the  bowl  be  sleeping, 

Nor  let  the  grog  go  round  like  a cripple,  creeping; 

If  your  care  comes  up — in  the  liquor  sink  it; 

Pass  along  the  lush — I’m  the  boy  can  drink  it. 

Isn’t  that  so,  Mrs.  Mary  Callaghan? 

Isn’t  that  so,  Mrs.  Mary  Callaghan? 

“ Shaugh,  my  hearty,  this  begins  to  feel  comfortable.  Your 
man,  O’Mealey,  has  a most  judicious  notion  of  punch  for  a small 
party;  and  though  one  has  prejudices  about  a table,  chairs,  and 
that  sort  of  thing,  take  my  word  for  it,  it’s  better  than  fighting 
the  French,  any  day.” 

“ Well,  Charley,  it  certainly  did  look  quite  awkward  enough 
the  other  day,  toward  three  o’clock,  when  the  legion  fell  back 
before  that  French  column,  and  broke  the  guards  behind  them.” 

“Yes,  you’re  quite  right;  but  I think  every  one  felt  that  the 
confusion  was  but  momentary;  the  gallant  Forty-eighth  was  up 
in  an  instant.” 

“Faith!  I can  answer  for  their  alacrity,”  said  the  Doctor. 
“ I was  making  my  way  to  the  rear  with  all  convenient  dis- 
patch, when  an  aid-de-camp  called  out: 

“ ‘ Cavalry  coming!  take  care,  Forty-eighth.’ 

“ ‘Left  face,  wheel!  Fall  in  there!  fall  in  there!’  I heard  on 
every  side,  and  soon  found  myself  standing  in  a square  with  Sir 
Arthur  himself,  and  Hill,  and  the  rest  of  them  all  around  me. 

“ ‘Steady,  men;  steady  now!’  said  Hill,  as  he  rode  around 
the  ranks,  while  we  saw  an  awful  column  of  cuirassiers  forming 
on  the  rising  ground  to  our  left. 

“ ‘ Here  they  come!’  said  Sir  Arthur,  as  the  French  came 
pounding  along,  making  the  very  earth  tremble  beneath  them. 

“ My  first  thought  was:  ‘ The  devils  are  mad!  and  they’ll  ride 
down  into  us,  before  they  know  they’re  kilt!’  and  sure  enough, 
smash  into  our  first  rank  they  pitched,  sabering  and  cutting  all 
before  them;  when  at  last  the  word  ‘ Fire  ’ was  given,  and  the 
whole  head  of  the  column  broke  like  a shell,  and  rolled  horse 
over  man  on  the  earth. 

“ ‘Very  well  done!  very  well,  indeed!’  said  Sir  Arthur,  turt 
mg  as  coolly  round  to  me,  as  if  he  was  asking  for  more  gravy. 


CHARLES  CMALLEW 


323 


“ ‘ Mighty  well  done,’  said  I,  in  reply,  and  resolving  not  to  be 
outdone  in  coolness,  I pulled  out  my  snuff-box,  and  offered  him 
a pinch,  saying  ‘ The  real  thing.  Sir  Arthur;  our  own  country- 
man— ^blackguard . ’ 

He  gave  a little  grim  kind  of  a smile,  took  a pinch,  and 
then  called  out: 

“ ‘ Let  Sherbrooke  advance,’  while  turning  again  toward  me. 
he  said:  ‘ Where  are  your  people,  Colonel?’ 

Colonel!’  thought  I!  ‘ Is  it  possible  he’s  going  to  promote 
me  ?’  but  before  I could  answer,  he  was  talking  to  another. 
Meanwhile,  Hill  came  up,  and  looking  at  me  steadfastly,  burst 
out  with: 

“ ‘Why  the  devil  are  you  here,  sir?  Why  ain’t  you  at  the 
rear?’ 

“‘Upon  my  conscience,’  said  I,  ‘that’s  the  very  thing  I’m 
puzzling  myself  about  this  minute!  but  if  you  think  it’s  pride  in 
me,  you’re  greatly  mistaken,  for  I’d  rather  the  greatest  scoundrel 
in  Dublin  was  kicking  me  down  Sackville  street,  than  be  here 
now!’ 

“You’d  think  it  was  fun  I was  making  if  you  heard  how 
they  all  laughed.  Hill  and  Cameron  and  the  others,  louder  than 
any. 

“ ‘ Who  is  he!’  said  Sir  Arthur,  quickly. 

“ ‘ Dr.  Quill,  Surgeon  of  the  Thirty- third.’ 

“ ‘Where  I exchanged,  to  be  near  my  brother,  sir,  in  the  Thir- 
ty-fourth.’ 

“ ‘ A Dc'ctor — a surgeon!  That  fellow  a surgeon!  Damn  him, 
I took  him  for  Colonel  Grosvenor!  I say,  Gordon,  these  medical 
officers  must  be  docked  of  thqir  fine  feathers,  there’s  no  know- 
ing them  from  the  staff;  look  to  that  in  the  next  general  order.’ 

“ And  sure  enough  they  left  us  bare  and  naked  the  next  morn- 
ing; and  if  the  French  sharpshooters  pick  us  down  now,  devil 
mend  them  for  wasting  powder,  for  if  they  look  in  the  orderly 
books,  they’ll  find  their  mistake.” 

“Ah,  Maurice,  Maurice,”  said  Shaugh,  with  a sigh,  “you’ll 
never  improve — you’ll  never  improve!” 

“ Why  the  devil  would  I?”  said  he;  “ ain’t  I at  the  top  of  my 
profession — full  surgeon — with  nothing  to  expect — nothing  to 
hope  for  ? Oh,  if  I only  remained  in  the  light  company,  what 
wouldn’t  I be  now  ?”  \ 

“ Then  you  were  not  always  a doctor  ?”  said  I. 

“Upon  my  conscience  I wasn’t,”  said  he;  “when  Shaugh 
knew  me  first,  I was  the  Adonis  of  the  Roscommon  militia,  with 
more  heiresses  on  my  list  than  any  man  in  the  regiment,  but 
Shaugh  and  myself  were  always  unlucky.” 

“ Poor  Mrs.  Rogers!”  said  the  Major,  pathetically,  drinking  off 
his  glass,  and  heaving  a profound  sigh. 

“Ah,  the  darling,”  said  the  Doctor;  “ if  it  wasn’t  for  a jug  of 
punch  that  lay  on  the  hall  table,  our  fortune  in  life  would  be 
very  different.” 

“ True  for  you,  Maurice,”  quoth  O’Shaughnessy. 

“I  should  like  much  to  hear  that  story,”  said  I,  pushing  the 
jag  briskly  round. 


834 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


“ He’ll  tell  it  you,”  said  O’Shaughnessy,  lighting  his  cigar, 
and  leaning  pensively  back  against  a tree.  “ He’ll  tell  it  you.” 

‘‘I  will,  with  pleasure,”  said  Maurice.  “Let  Mr.  Free  mean- 
time amuse  himself  with  the  punch-bowl,  and  I’ll  relate  it.  ‘ But 
the  relation  itself,  for  reasons  mentioned  in  the  following 
pages,  must  be  left  to  our  next. 

L’ENVOY. 

Most  Kind  Public: 

It  is  now  nearly  two  years  since  we  opened  an  acquaintance 
with  you.  With  what  pleasure  to  ourselves  the  intimacy  has 
been  cultivated,  we  need  not  repeat  here.  Your  indulgence, 
your  good  nature,  your  untiring  kindness,  have  been  present 
with  us  through  every  page  we  wrote;  and  whether  our  heart 
was  heavy  or  our  spirits  light,  toward  you  we  had  but  one  feel- 
ing— the  deepest  gratitude  for  all  your  favors,  with  an  ardent 
wish  to  preserve  them  to  the  last. 

A hundred  times  have  we  asked  ourselves,  Why  were  you 
pleased  with  us,  and  for  what  ? — which  among  the  characters  of 
our  veracious  history  had  taken  your  fancy,  and  wherefore  ? 

Have  you  sympathized  in  the  Irish  waywardness  and  reckless 
good  nature  of  Fred  Power  ? Have  you  felt  for  the  unmerited 
sorrows  of  the  fair  Dalrymples  ? Have  you  warmed  with  gen- 
erous enthusiasm  for  the  moral  sentiments  and  pious  effusions  of 
Monsoon?  or  have  you  smiled  at  the  vagrant  fancies  and  cun- 
ning conceits  of  Mickey  Free  ? Alas,  we  know  not.  We  are 
merely  aware,  upon  the  whole,  that  you  are  not  altogether  weary 
of  us;  but  which  is  the  attraction  of  the  piece,  which  the  star  of 
our  company,  we  are  totally  ignorant. 

Such  were  our  wandering  thoughts  as  we  sat  beside  our  Christ- 
mas fire,  and  in  a bumper  of  our  oldest  and  raciest,  pledged  you 
— ay,  your  own  excellent  self — as  the  best  of  patrons  and  most 
kind  of  masters.  Many  a passing  thought  of  friendly  import 
suggested  itself,  as  we  puzzled  our  brains  how  we  best  might 
testify  our  gratitude  at  this  season  of  mutual  good  wishes. 
Many  a plan  presented  itself,  in  turn,  and  in  turn  was  rejected 
asjfar  too  weak  for  the  expression  of  ourjfeelings;  when,  suddenly, 
the  current  of  our  thoughts  received  a sad  and  fatal  shock, 
which,  while  it  rendered  our  present  desire  unattainable,  only 
promised  to  lay  us  under  deeper  obligations  for  the  future. 

The  misfortune  we  allude  to  was  briefly  this: 

In  a fire  which  took  place  in  Dublin  on  the  morning  of  the 
second  of  January,  the  whole  of  the  premises  in  which  the 
printing  of  our  book  was  carried  on,  were  burned  to  the  ground  I 
The  violence  of  the  flames  even  melted  the  very  type  in  the 
frames;  and  where  a tall  and  goodly  building  had  stood  but 
yesterday,  a moldering  and  smoking  ruin  now  marks  the  spot. 
In  this  sad  conjuncture,  our  first  thought  was  for  the  proprietor, 
an  upright  and  industrious  man,  whose  calamity  is  a most  heavy 
one.  His  property  was,  we  believe,  uninsured,  and  the  loss  in- 
volves great  part  of  that  competence  which  years  of  toil  and 
labor  had  accumulated. 

Our  next  regret — believe  us,  it  came  after  a long  interval— 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


326 


was  for  ourselves.  Our  own  misfortunes — nothing  in  c^)mparison 
with  his — consisted  in  the  loss  of  our  MSS.  The  record  of  our 
campaigns — our  days  of  battle  and  nights  of  bivouac,  met  the 
fate  of  many  worthier  pages,  and  were  utterly  consumed. 

It  is  needless  to  express  our  regrets  for  the  mishap;  and,  im 
deed,  we  should  not  have  obtruded  our  sorrows  upon  you,  were 
it  not  that  an  apology  is  requisite  to  account  for  our  maimed 
and  imperfect  appearance.  The  melting  pathos  that  was 
destined  to  stir  your  bosom,  the  merry  tale  we  calculated  on 
for  our  laugh,  the  song  we  hoped  you’d  sing,  are  lost  to  us  for- 
ever: and  the  heavy  plash  of  the  ‘‘Sun,”  and  the  “Phoenix” 
have  done  more  to  extinguish  our  fire,  than,  unhappily,  they 
have  effected  for  that  of  our  printer. 

It  is  but  poor  sport  to  tell  you  what  deeds  of  prowess  we  ef- 
fected, what  battles  we  braved,  what  skirmishes  we  fought. 
How  Monsoon  preached  and  Mike  chanted,  how  Power  laughed 
and  O’Shaughnessy  blundered.  Alas,  and  alas,  the  record  was 
not  fated  to  elicit  laughter;  and  the  only  tears  it  called  forth 
came  from  the  fire  engines. 

That  we  were  about  to  become  most  interesting,  most  witty, 
most  moving,  and  most  melancholy,  we  are  ready  to  swear  be- 
fore any  justice  in  the  commission;  that  anything  we  had  hither- 
to done  was  as  nothing  compared  to  what  we  had  in  store,  we 
solemnly  adjure;  and  we  entreat  you  to  believe,  what  we  our- 
selves are  convinced  of,  that  what  we  held  in  reserve,  was  the 
whole  force  of  our  history. 

Lend  us,  then,  most  amiable  reader,  all  your  spare  sympathy; 
the  compliments  of  the  season,  despite  thejtemperature  we  write 
in,  have  been  far  too  warm  for  us,  and  we  must  be  excused  de- 
siring “ many  returns  of  them  for  the  future.” 

Meanwhile  our  worthy  publisher,  who  has  as  much  compassion 
for  a burnt  MS.  as  the  steward  of  a steamer  has  for  the  suffering 
of  a passenger,  bids  us  be  of  “ good  cheer.” 

“ Never  mind  it,”  quoth  he.  “It’s  provoking,  to  be  sure;  but 
come  out  with  a capital  Number  in  February,  and  they’ll  think 
nothing  of  it.” 

They — meaning  you,  my  Public — you’ll  think  nothing  of  what  ? 
Of  what  took  us  months  to  indite — of  Mike’s  songs,  of  which  no 
copies  are  in  existence — of  the  various  sayings  and  doings, 
thoughts,  acts,  and  opinions  of  Messrs.  Monsoon,  Power,  Web- 
ber, Quill,  O’Shaughnessy  and  Co.,  who  are  at  this  moment  scat- 
tered here  and  there  about  the  globe,  and,  except]Monsoon,  not  a 
man  of  them  to  be  bribed  by  ho^  or  hermitage  to  recount  a 
single  incident  of  their  lives. 

Some  of  our  characters  have  grown  serious,  and  don’t  like  this 
mention  of  them  at  all.  Others  are  married,  and  have  vixenish 
wives,  highly  indignant  at  the  early  pranks  of  their  venerable 
partners.  Many  want  to  write  their  own  adventures,  and  don’t 
fancy  our  poaching  over  their  manor;  and  not  a few  are  diners- 
out,  depending  for  their  turtle  and  claret  upon  the  very  stories 
we  have  given  you  this  year  past. 

Notwithstanding  all  these  obstacles  we  are  told  “not  to  mind 
it.”  A capital  No. — plenty  of  drollery — none  of  your  long  yarns 


B26 


CHARLES  aMALLET, 


about  the  Douro,  but  fun — Irish  fun — Mickey  Free  and  Monsoon 
— that’s  what  we  want.  Confound  the  man!  does  he  think  we’re 
inventing  our  life  ? does  he  suppose  we  are  detailing  a fiction  and 
not  a real  history?  No,  no;  there  is  no  one  better  than  himself 
aware  that  our  characters  are  real  people,  who,  however  little 
pleased  they  may  be  at  being  painted  at  all,  will  never  conde- 
scend to  be  caricatured.  Never  did  a man  stand  more  stoutly 
upon  his  prerogative  and  resolutely  reject  all  advances,  till  he 
gently  hinted  that  our  very  amiable  friend,  Frank  Webber,  had 
offered  himself  to  complete  the  volume — this  threat  was  really 
too  much  for  us,  and  we  knocked  under. 

The  next  question  was  as  to  time.  It  was  impossible  for  us  at 
a moment  to  rewrite  our  lost  pages;  and,  in  our  distress,  we 
sought  the  aid  and  assistance  of  our  literary  friends;  among 
others,  the  talented  author  of  “ Darnley,”  and  the  ‘‘Gyp- 
sy.” He  came  to  our  succor  with  a readiness  no  less  a proof  of 
his  friendship  than  his  genius;  and  in  a story  of  intense  interest 
and  great  beauty  has  done  much  to  console  us.  It  is  now  before 
us;  we  intend  also,  that  it  shall  be  before  you. 

Though  little  apology  is  necessary,  that  having  invited  you  to 
partake  of  tough  mutton,  we  have  presented  you  with  racy  ven- 
ison, and  though  well  knowing  that  when  enjoying  “James,” 
you  have  no  regrets  for  “ Harry,”  we  deem  it  only  respectful 
toward  you,  or  fitting  in  us,  to  explain  what  has  occurred,  and 
to  add  that,  before  the  next  period  of  appeariug  before  you,  we 
shall  have  done  everything  in  our  power  to  recover  the  true  web 
of  our  narrative. 

Here,  then,  you  have  our  story  and  our  ai)ology — while  we 
earnestly  entreat  you  to  believe  none  genuine  except  signed  by 
Charles  O’Malley;  there  is  no  reliance  to  be  placed  in  the  many 
versions  abroad.  It  is  not  true  that  our  book  is  pronounced 
“ doubly  hazardous  ” by  the  insurance  companies,  and  not  ac- 
ceptable under  a “parson  premium;”  there  is  no  truth  in  the 
story  that  the  fire  was  a malicious  act,  originating  among  the 
junior  bar;  there  is  no  truth  in  the  statement  that  a gigantic  and 
powerful  individual  interposed  his  strong  arm  to  prevent  the 
engines  playing  upon  the  manuscript-room,  declaring,  at  the 
time,  that  he  “should  see  us  burned  to  ashes.” 

We  cannot  conclude  without  publicly  testifying  our  grati- 
tude to  O’Shaughnessy.  He  arrived  here  post  from  Strasburg, 
the  moment  he  heard  of  our  mishap,  and  has  been  administer- 
ing every  comfort  and  consolation  in  his  power. 

“ It’s  may  be  the  best  thiiig  ever  happened  you,  Charley.  It’s 
truth  I’m  telling  you — hear  me  out.  My  father — God  rest  him 
— had  two  pounds  ten  in  French’s  notes,  when  the  bank  broke, 
and  to  the  hour  of  his  death  he  never  paid  a creditor,  always 
alleging  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  that  d d bank  he’d  not  owe  six- 

pence! Take  the  hint,  my  boy.  If  they  complain  that  y«)u’r0 
dull — that  you  are  growing  prosy  and  tiresome — that  Monsoon  is 
a bore,  and  yourself  not  much  better,  tell  them  it’s  all  the  fault 
of  the  fire;  and  if  you  manage  it  well,  the  excuse  will  last  your 
life-time.” 

Let  me  now  conclude  with  this  assurance,  while  I forestal  the 


CHARLES  O^MALLET. 


m 

moral  of  my  friend  James’s  beautiful  story,  and  assure  you  that 
I feel  a fire  can  be  a happy  incident;  for,  had  not  my  pages 
been  burnt,  I should  never  have  been  able  to  present  you  with 
his.  I am  most  respectfully  and  faithfully  yours, 

Charles  O’Malley. 

Brussels^  Jan.  18,  1841. 

TO  G.  P.  R.  JAMES,  ESQ. 

Hotel  de  Itegence» 

With  a scrap  of  note  paper,  just  saved  from  the  flames, 

I sit  down  to  write  you  a line,  my  dear  James, 

And  explain,  if  I’m  able,  my  spirits  to  rally. 

The  misfortune  that’s  happened  to  poor  Charles  O’Malley. 

In  Ireland,  where  once  they  were  proud  of  their  learning, 

They’ve  taken,  of  late  years,  to  roasting  and  burning; 

And,  not  satisfied  now  with  destroying  a parson. 

They’ve  given  a poor  author  a touch  of  their  arson. 

About  these  good  people  I rarely  was  critical, 

Seldom  religious,  and  never  political; 

I neither  subscribed  to  the  “ Post”  nor  the  “ Mail,” 

Nor  cried  “No  Surrender,”  nor  “ Up  with  Eepale;''* 

Though  I’ve  listened  to  arguments  over  and  over, 

I’ve  confounded  M’Hale  with  the  King  of  Hanover; 

And  never  by  chance  could  find  out  what  they  mean, 

When  asked,  if  I didn’t  like  blue  before  green. 

In  a word,  my  dear  friend — I confess,  as  a man 
I relished  Young  Butt,  and  admired,  too,  Old  Dan. 

They  were  Irishmen  both — not  a touch  of  the  Norman, 

No  more  than  great  Nicholas  Purcell  O’Gorman. 

From  Kinsale  to  the  Causeway — Athlone  or  Armagh — 

They  are  Paddies  all  over — from  Erin  go  Bragh. 

I loved  the  gay  fellows,  and  cared  not  a crown 

Did  they  play  “ Bloody  Billy”  or  “ Croppies  Lie  Down;” 

As  ready  with  one  as  the  other  to  tope. 

To  cry  “ Down  with  the  Church,”  “Bloody  end  to  the  Pope.” 
They  might  wear  in  their  neckcloth  pea-green  or  sky-blue, 
Provided  their  hearts  were  but  honest  and  true; 

And,  however  whigs,  tories,  and  radicals  talk. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  shamrock,  they  spring  from  one  stalk; 
They’ve  their  root  in  the  soil,  and  they  wish  not  to  sever. 

But  adorn  the  hills  of  their  country  forever. 

But,  at  last,  to  come  back,  for  I’m  sure  you  suppose 
I’ve  lost,  in  digressing,  all  sight  of  my  woes. 

And  forgot  how  the  devil — the  printer’s,  I say — 

Set  fire  to  my  book  on  the  last  New  Year’s  day; 

And  just  as  the  ribbon  men  treated  old  Kinsela, 

They  roasted  the  heroes  that  fought  the  PeninsulUo 
They  left  not  a character  living  for  me, 

Frank  Webber,  and  Power,  and  poor  Mickey  Free; 

And  even  the  “ Dais,”  and  the  Major  Monsoon, 

They  sent  up,  in  fragments,  as  high  as  the  moon — 

On  my  conscience,  they  finished  the  Irish  Dragoonl 

Not  a man  could  escape,  nor  lie  hid  in  a nook. 

The  wretches,  they  even  laid  hands  on  “ the  Duke;” 

And  from  what  I have  heard — this  between  me  and  you — 

He  shone  full  as  bright  as  at  great  Waterloo; 

And  though  firemen  played,  like  some  journals  we’d  name, 

They  could  not  extinguish  one  spark  of  his  fame. 

As  when  rising  on  high,  and  upon  earth  no  more  ho 
Illumined  the  land  of  his  birth  with  his  glory. 


3^8 


CHARLES  aMALLEf. 


But  to  come  back  once  more — these  eternal  digressions 
Are  like  record  appeals  from  the  last  quarter  sessions, 

Where  the  judges  wish  both  sides  were  fast  in  the  stocks, 

And  the  jury  are  all  sound  asleep  in  the  box — 

They’ve  burnt  my  book— not  a story  nor  sally, 

Not  a love-scene,  nor  fight  now  remains  of  O’Malley; 

Not  a battle,  or  bivouac,  ever  you’ll  see, 

Nor  even  a chant  from  our  friend  Mickey  Free. 

******* 

So  with  laboring  brain,  and  with  faculties  turning,  ' 

I sit  trying  to  find  out  a cause  for  this  burning. 

Was  it  some  scheme  of  a clique,  or  a closet?  or 
Was  it  the  fault  of  a drowsy  compositor? 

Was  it  some  story  with  which  I’ve  been  rash  in? 

Or  was  it  some  foe  to  my  good  friend  M’Glashan?  ' 

Was  it  Otway,  or  Carleton,  or  was  it  Sam  Lover? 

Alas,  I’m  afraid  I shall  never  discover, 

I don’t  think  it  true,  but  it’s  whispered  to  me, 

That  Moore  had  been  jealous  of  poor  Mickey  Free; 

For  he  sings  his  own  songs — when  he’s  asked  out  to  tea. 

But  come  over,  dear  friend,  and  partake  of  my  prog. 

And  suggest  what  to  do  for  an  unlucky  dog. 

Who  never  gives  way  long  to  grief  and  to  sorry  care, 

For,  somehow,  they  but  ill  suit  your  friend, 

Harry  Lorrequer 

James’s  Answer— Volume  the  First. 

My  Dear  Lorrequer, — When  I received  your  note,  the  sun 
was  shining  as  brightly  as  if  it  had  been  summer,  and  on  the 
golden  background  of  the  evening  sky  the  thin  tracery  of  the 
leafless  twigs  was  flnely  marked,  offering  many  a beautiful  form 
and  graceful  line,  though  the  foliage  of  a brighter  season  had  de- 
parted. They  were  like  the  memories  of  hopes  long  passed 
away;  and  I could  not  help  thinking,  as  I read  the  account  of 
what  had  befallen  you,  that  you,  like  those  bare  branches — 
though  you  had  lost  one  crop  of  leaves  in  this  untimely  manner, 
might  very  soon  produce  another  as  fertile  of  hope  as  those 
which  were  gone.  The  news  of  the  burning  of  the  printing- 
house,  and  the  loss  it  occasioned  you,  grieved  me  deeply,  but 
it  did  not  surprise  me  in  the  least.  I have  alw’ays  expected  it; 
for  who  would  doubt  that,  after  you  had  gone  on  eating  fire  so 
long,  fire  would  some  time  or  another  turn  around  and  eat  you. 
Besides,  my  dear  Lorrequer,  there  is  something  so  very  inflam- 
matory in  your  nature  that  I wonder  any  printer  would  let  your 
sheets  within  his  door.  No  one  ever  speaks  of  you  without 
finding  ideas  of  combustion  naturally  suggesting  themselves,  and 
the  wife  of  a great  general,  in  describing  to  me,  the  other  day, 
a visit  you  had  paid  her  with  a worthy  gentleman  from  Scot- 
land, said,  that  it  was  the  strangest  contrast  she  had  ever  seen, 
for  he  burned  like  a port-fire,  while  you  went  off  like  a sky- 
rocket. Why,  your  good  and  your  bad  qualities  all  tend  to  the 
same  effect,  and  your  very  books  are  enough  to  make  a man  call 
a fire-engine.  Warm-hearted  though  you  be,  you  cannot  deny 
that  you  are  as  fiery  as  a box  of  lucifers,  and  have  been  in  a 
flame  of  one  kind  or  another  all  your  life;  and  when  we  take  into 
consideration  your  flashing  wit,  and  your  blazing  style,  I can- 


CHARLES  O^ALLEY. 


329 


not  but  think  that  the  printer  who  takes  in  your  MS.  without 
warning  his  neighbors,  might  be  indicted  for  a nuisance.  I have 
a strong  notion  that  you  are  Swing  in  disguise;  so  lay  the  fault 
upon  nobody  but  yourself. 

However,  let  me  see  if  I can  give  you  some  consolation;  and, 
first,  in  the  true  style  of  all  comforters,  let  me  try  to  persuade 
you  that  a great  misfortune  is  the  best  possible  thing  that  could 
happen  to  you.  After  all  is  done  and  over,  my  good  friend,  a 
fire  is  not  so  bad  a thing.  You  may  say:  “Granted;  a small 
quantity  of  the  element;  but  that  one  may  have  too  much  of  a 
good  thing.  That  a fire  in  a grate  is  a good  thing  in  its  way; 
but  a house  on  fire  is  to  be  avoided,  when  possible.”  Still,  how- 
ever, I hold  to  my  text,  and  reply  that  a house  on  fire  is  not 
always  so  bad  a thing  as  people  think.  I recollect  a very  sweet 
girl  being  saved  from  drowning  in  the  middle  of  the  Atlantic  by 
a house  on  fire.  Come,  I will  tell  you  the  story,  and  that 
shall  be 

Volume  the  Second. 

There  was  once  a great  banker  in  London,  who  had  a very 
fine  house  in  Portland  Place,  and  a very  dirty  old  house 
in  the  city;  and  if  the  latter  looked  the  image  of  business  and 
riches,  the  former  looked  the  picture  of  luxury  and  display. 
He  himself  was  a mild  man,  whose  ostentation  was  of  a quiet, 
but  not  the  less  of  an  active  kind.  His  movements  were  always 
calm  and  tranquil,  and  his  clothes  plain;  but  the  former  were 
stately,  the  latter  were  in  the  best  fashion.  Holditch  was  his 
coachmaker  in  those  days;  Ude’s  first  cousin  was  his  cook;  his 
servants  walked  up-stairs  to  announce  a visitor  to  the  time  of 
the  Dead  March  in  Saul,  and  opened  both  halves  of  the  folding- 
doors  at  once  with  a grace  that  could  only  be  acquired  by  long 
practice.  Everything  seemed  to  move  in  his  house  by  rule,  and 
nothing  was  ever  seen  to  go  wrong.  All  the  lackeys  wore  pow- 
der, and  the  women -servants  had  their  caps  prescribed  to  them. 
His  wife  was  the  daughter  of  a country  gentleman  of  very  old 
race,  a woman  of  good  manners  and  a warm  heart.  Though 
there  were  two  carriages  always  at  her  especial  command,  she 
sometimes  walked  on  her  feet,  even  in  London,  and  would  not 
suffer  an  account  of  her  parties  to  find  its  way  into  the  “ Morn- 
ing Post.”  The  banker  and  his  wife  had  but  one  child,  a daugh- 
ter, and  a very  pretty  and  very  sweet  girl  she  was  as  ever  my  eyes 
saw.  She  was  not  very  tall,  though  very  beautifully  formed, 
and  exquisitely  graceful.  She  was  the  least  affected  person  that 
ever  was  seen;  for,  accustomed  from  her  earliest  day  to  perfect 
ease  in  every  respect — denied  nothing  that  was  virtuous  and 
right — taught  by  her  mother  to  estimate  high  qualities — too  much 
habituated  to  wealth  to  regard  it  as  an  object — and  too  frequently 
brought  in  contact  with  rank  to  estimate  it  above  its  value — she 
had  nothing  to  covet,  and  nothing  to  assume.  Her  face  was 
sweet  and  thoughtful,  though  the  thoughts  were  evidently 
cheerful  ones,  and  her  voice  was  full  of  melody  and  gentleness. 
Her  name  w^as  Alice  Herbert,  and  she  was  soon  the  admired  of 
all  admirers.  People  looked  for  her  at  the  opera  and  the  park, 


830 


CHARLES  OMALLEY 


declared  her  beautiful,  adorable,  divine;  she  became  the  wonder, 
the  rage,  the  fashion;  and  everybody  added,  when  they  spoke 
about  her,  that  she  would  have  half  a million  at  the  least.  Now, 
Mr.  Herbert  himself  was  not  at  all  anxious  that  his  daugh- 
ter should  marry  any  of  the  men  that  first  presented  themselves, 
because  none  of  them  were  above  the  rank  of  a baron;  nor  was 
Mrs.  Herbert  anxious  either,  because  she  did  not  wish  to  part 
with  her  daughter;  nor  was  Alice  herself — I do  not  know  well 
why — perhaps  she  thought  that  a part  of  the  men  who  sur- 
rounded her  were  fops,  and  as  many  more  were  libertines,  and 
the  rest  were  fools,  and  Alice  did  not  feel  more  inclined  to 
choose  out  of  those  three  classes  than  her  father  did  out  of  the 
three  inferior  grades  of  our  nobility.  There  was,  indeed,  a young 
man  in  the  Guards,  distantly  connected  with  her  mother’s  family, 
who  was  neither  fop,  libertine,  nor  fool — a gentleman,  an  accom- 
plished man,  and  a man  of  good  feeling,  w^ho  was  often  at  Mr- 
Herbert’s  house,  but  father,  mother,  and  daughter  all  thought 
him  quite  out  of  the  question;  the  father,  because  he  was  not  a 
duke;  the  mol  her,  because  he  was  not  a soldier;  the  daughter, 
because  he  had  never  given  her  the  slightest  reason  to  believe 
that  he  either  admired  or  loved  her.  As  he  had  some  two  thou- 
sand a year,  he  might  have  been  a good  match  for  a clergyman’s 
daughter,  but  could  not  pretend  to  Miss  Herbert.  Alice  cer- 
tainly liked  him  better  than  any  man  she  had  ever  seen,  and 
once  she  found  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  from  the  other  side  of  a 
ball-room  with  an  expression  that  made  her  forget  what  her 
partner  was  saying  to  her.  The  color  came  up  into  her  cheek, 
too,  and  this  seemed  to  give  Henry  Ashton  courage  to  come 
over  and  ask  her  to  dance.  She  danced  with  him  on  the  follow- 
ing night,  too;  and  Mr.  Herbert,  who  marked  the  fact,  judged 
that  it  would  be  but  right  to  give  Henry  Ashton  a hint.  Two  days 
after,  as  Alice’s  father  was  just  about  to  go  out,  the  young 
guardsman  himself  was  ushered  into  his  library,  and  the  banker 
prepared  to  give  his  hint,  and  give  it  plainly,  too.  He  was  saved 
the  trouble,  however;  for  Ashton’s  first  speech  was:  “I  have 
come  to  bid  you  farewell,  Mr.  Herbert.  We  are  ordered  to 
Canada  to  put  down  the  evil  spirit  there.  I set  out  in  an  hour 
to  take  leave  of  my  mother,  in  Staffordshire,  and  then  embark 
with  all  speed.” 

Mr.  Herbert  economized  his  hint,  and  wished  his  young  friend 
' all  success.  “By  the  way,”  he  added,  “ Mrs.  Herbert  may  like 
to  write  a few  lines  by  you  to  her  brother  at  Montreal.  You 
know  he  is  her  only  brother;  he  made  a sad  business  of  it,  what 
with  building,  and  planting,  and  farming  and  such  things.  So 
I got  him  an  appointment  in  Canada  just  that  he  might  retrieve. 
She  would  like  to  write,  I know.  You  will  find  her  up-srairs.  I 
must  go  out  myself.  Good  fortune  attend  you.” 

Good  fortune  did  attend  him,  for  he  found  Alice  Herbert 
alone  in  the  very  first  room  he  entered.  There  w'as  a table  before 
her,  and  she  was  leaning  over  it,  as  if  very  busy,  but  when 
Henry  Ashton  approached  her  she  was  carelessly  drawing  fern 
leaves  on  a scrap  of  paper,  while  her  thoughts  were  far  away. 
She  colored  when  she  saw  him,  and  was  evidently  agitated;  but 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


831 


she  was  still  more  so  when  he  repeated  what  he  had  told  her 
father.  She  turned  red,  and  she  turned  pale,  and  she  sat  still, 
and  she  said  nothing.  Henry  Ashton  became  agitated  himself. 
“ It  is  all  in  vain,”  he  said  to  himself.  “ It  is  all  in  vain.  I know 
her  father  too  well;”  and  he  rose,  asking  where  he  should  find 
her  mother. 

Alice  answered  in  a faint  voice:  “ In  the  little  room  beyond 
the  back  drawing-room.” 

Henry  paused  a moment  longer,  the  temptation  was  too  great 
to  be  resisted;  he  took  the  sweet  girl’s  hand;  he  pressed  it  to  his 
lips  and  said:  “Farewell,  Miss  Herbert,  farewell!  I know  I 
shall  never  see  any  one  like  you  again;  but  at  least  it  is  a bless- 
ing to  have  known  you — though  it  be  but  to  regret  that  fortune 
has  not  favored  me  still  further.  Farewell!  farewell!” 

Henry  Ashton  sailed  for  Canada,  and  saw  sonae  service  there. 
He  distinguished  himself  as  an  officer,  and  his  nanae  was  in 
several  dispatches.  A remnant  of  the  old  chivalrous  spirit  made 
him  often  think,  when  he  was  attacking  a fortified  village,  or 
charging  a body  of  insurgents,  “Alice  Herbert  will  hear  of 
this!”  but  often,  too,  he  would  ask  himself,  “I  wonder  if  she 
be  married  yet?”  and  his  companions  used  to  jest  with  him  upon 
always  looking  first  at  the  woman’s  part  of  the  newspaper;  the 
births,  deaths,  and  marriages. 

His  fears,  if  we  can  venture  to  call  them  such,  were  vain. 
Alice  did  not  marry,  although  about  a year  after  Henry  Ashton 
had  quitted  England,  her  father  descended  a little  from  his  high 
ambition,  and  hinted  that  if  she  thought  fit,  she  might  listen  to 

the  young  Earl  of . Alice  was  not  inclined  to  listen,  and 

gave  the  Earl  plainly  to  understand  that  she  was  not  inclined  to 
become  his  countess.  The  Earl,  however,  persevered,  and  Mr. 
Herbert  now  began  to  add  his  influence;  but  Alice  was  obdurate, 
and  reminded  her  father  of  a promise  he  had  made,  never  to 
press  her  marriage  with  any  one.  Mr.  Herbert  seemed  more 
annoyed  than  Alice  expected,  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in 
silence,  and  on  hearing  it,  shut  himself  up  with  Mrs.  Herbert 
for  nearly  two  hours. 

What  took  place  Alice  did  not  know,  but  Mrs.  Herbert  from 
that  moment  looked  grave  and  anxious.  Mr.  Herbert  insisted 
that  the  Earl  should  be  received  at  the  house  as  a friend,  though 
he  urged  his  daughter  no  more,  and  balls  and  parties  succeeded 
each  other  so  rapidly  that  the  quieter  inhabitants  of  Portland 
Place  wished  the  banker  and  his  family,  where  Alice  herself 
wished  to  be — in  Canada.  In  the  meantime,  Alice  became  alarmed 
for  her  mother,  whose  health  was  evidently  suffering  from  some 
cause;  but  Mrs.  Herbert  would  consult  no  physician,  and  her 
husband  seemed  never  to  perceive  the  state  of  weakness  and 
depression  into  which  she  was  sinking.  Alice  resolved  to  call  the 
matter  to  her  father’s  notice,  and  as  he  now  went  out  every 
morning  at  an  early  hour,  she  rose  one  day  sooner  than  usual, 
and  knocked  at  the  door  of  his  dressing-room.  There  was  no 
answer,  and,  unclosing  the  door,  she  looked  in  to  see  if  he  were 
already  gone.  The  curtains  were  still  drawn,  but  through  them 
Bomc  of  the  morning  beams  found  their  way,  and  by  the  dim, 


332 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


sickly  light  Alice  beheld  an  object  that  made  her  clasp  her  hands 
and  tremble  violently.  Her  father's  chair  before  the  dressing- 
table  was  vacant;  but  beside  it  lay  upon  the  floor  something  like 
the  figure  of  a man  asleep.  Alice  approached,  with  her  heart 
beating  so  violently  that  she  could  hear  it;  and  there  was  no 
other  sound  in  the  room.  She  knelt  down  beside  him;  it  was 
her  father.  She  could  not  hear  him  breathe,  and  she  drew  back 
the  curtains.  He  was  pale  as  marble,  and  his  eyes  were  open, 
but  fixed.  She  uttered  not  a sound,  but  with  wild  eyes  gazed 
round  the  room,  thinking  of  what  she  should  do.  Her  mother 
was  in  the  chamber  at  the  side  of  the  dressing-room;  but  Alice, 
thoughtful  even  in  the  deepest  agitation,  feared  to  call  her,  and 
rang  the  bell  for  her  father’s  valet.  The  man  came  and  raised 
his  master,  but  Mr.  Herbert  had  evidently  been  dead  some 
hours.  Poor  Alice  wept  terribly,  but  still  she  thought  of  her 
mother,  and  she  made  no  noise,  and  the  valet  was  silent,  too, 
for,  in  lifting  the  dead  body  to  the  sofa,  he  had  found  a small 
vial,  and  was  gazing  on  it  intently. 

“ I had  better  put  this  away.  Miss  Herbert,”  he  said  at  length, 
in  a low  voice;  “ I had  better  put  this  away,  before  any  one  else 
comes.” 

Alice  gazed  at  the  vial  with  her  tearful  eyes.  It  was  marked: 
“ Prussic  acid!  poison!” 

This  was  but  the  commencement  of  many  sorrows.  Though 
the  coroner’s  jury  pronounced  that  Mr.  Herbert  had  died  a 
natural  death,  yet  every  one  declared  he  had  poisoned  himself, 
especially  when  it  was  found  that  he  had  died  utterly  insolvent. 
That  all  his  last  great  speculations  had  failed,  and  that  the  news 
of  his  absolute  beggary  had  reached  him  on  the  night  preceding 
his  decease.  Then  came  all  the  horrors  of  such  circumstances 
to  poor  Alice  and  her  mother;  the  funeral — the  examination  of 
the  papers — the  sale  of  the  house  and  furniture;  the  tiger  claws 
of  the  law  rending  open  the  house  in  all  its  dearest  associations — 
the  commiseration  of  friends,  the  taunts  and  scoffs  of  those  who 
envied  and  hated  in  silence.  Then  for  poor  Alice  herself  came 
the  last  worst  blow,  the  sickness  and  death-bed  of  a mother — 
sickness  and  death  in  poverty.  The  last  scene  was  just  over; 
the  earth  was  just  laid  upon  the  coffin  of  Mrs.  Herbert;  and 
Alice  sat  with  her  eyes  drooping  fast,  thinking  of  the  sad  “ What 
next  f ’ when  a letter  was  given  to  her,  and  she  saw  the  hand- 
writing of  her  uncle  in  Canada.  She  had  written  to  him  on  her 
father’s  death,  and  now  he  answered  full  of  tenderness  and 
affection,  begging  his  sister  and  niece  instantly  to  join  liim  in 
the  new  land  which  he  had  made  his  country.  All  the  topics  of 
consolation  which  philosophy  ever  discovered  or  devised  to 
soothe  man  under  the  manifold  sorrows  and  cares  of  life,  are  not 
worth  a blade  of  rye  grass  in  comparison  with  one  word  of  true 
affection.  It  was  the  only  balm  that  Alice  Herbert’s  heart 
could  have  received;  and  though  it  did  not  heal  the  wound,  it 
tranquilized  its  aching. 

Mrs.  Herbert,  though  not  rich,  had  not  been  altogether  por- 
tionless, and  her  small  fortune  was  all  that  Alice  now  con- 
deeaended  to  call  her  own.  There  had  been.  Indeed,  a consider* 


CHARLES  CMALLET. 


B83 


able  jointure,  but  that  Alice  renounced  from  feelings  which  you 
will  understand.  Economy,  however,  was  now  a necessity;  and 
after  taking  a passage  in  one  of  the  cheapest  vessels  she  could 
find  bound  for  Quebec — a vessel  that  all  the  world  has  heard  of, 
named  the  St.  Lawrence — she  set  out  for  the  good  city  of  Bristol, 
where  she  arrived  in  safety  on  the  16th  of  May,  183 — . 

I must  now,  however,  turn  to  the  history  of  Henry  Ashton, 
^and  that  shall  be 

Volume  the  Thikd. 

It  was  just  after  the  business  in  Canada  was  settled,  that  he 
entered  a room  in  Quebec,  where  several  of  the  officers  of  his 
regiment  were  assembled  in  various  occupations — one  writing  a 
letter  to  go  by  the  packet  which  was  just  about  to  sail,  two 
looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  nothing  which  was  doing  in  the 
streets,  and  one  reading  the  newspaper.  There  were  three  or 
four  other  journals  on  the  table,  and  Ashton  took  up  one  of 
them.  As  usual,  he  turned  to  the  record  of  the  three  great 
things  in  life,  and  read  first  the  marriages — then  the  deaths; 
and,  as  he  did  so  he  saw — “Suddenly,  at  his  house  in  Portland 
Place,  William  Anthony  Herbert,  Esq.”  The  paper  did  not 
drop  from  his  hand,  although  he  was  much  moved  and  sur- 
prised; but  his  sensations  were  very  mixed,  and  although,  be  it 
said  truly,  he  gave  his  first  thoughts,  and  they  were  sorrowTul, 
to  the  dead,  the  second  were  given  to  Alice  Herbert,  and  he 
asked  himself:  “Is  it  possible  that  she  can  ever  be  mine?  She 
was  certainly  very  much  agitated  when  I left  her!” 

“Here’s  a bad  business!”  cried  the  man  who  was  reading  the 
other  newspaper.  “ The  Herberts  are  all  gone  to  smash,  and  I 
had  six  hundred  pounds  there.  You  are  in  for  it,  Ashton. 
Look  there!  They  talk  of  three  shillings  in  the  pound.” 

Henry  Ashton  took  the  paper  and  read  the  account  of  all  that 
had  occurred  in  London,  and  then  he  took  his  hat,  and  walked 
to  headquarters.  What  he  said  or  did  there,  is  nobody’s  busi- 
ness but  his  own;  but  certain  it  is,  that  by  the  beginning  of  the 
very  next  week,  he  was  in  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence.  Fair 
winds  wafted  him  soon  to  England;  but  in  St.  George’s  Chan- 
nel all  went  contrary,  and  the  ship  was  knocked  about  for  three 
days  without  making  much  way.  A fit  of  impatience  had  come 
upon  Henry  Ashton,  and  when  he  thought  of  Alice  Herbert,  and 
all  she  must  have  suffered,  his  heart  beat  strangely.  One  of 
those  little  incidents  occurred  about  this  time,  that  make  or  mar 
men’s  destinies.  A coasting  boat  from  Swansea  to  Wiston,  came 
within  hail,  and  Ashton,  tired  of  the  other  vessel,  put  a portman- 
teau, a servant,  and  himself  into  the  little  skimmer  of  the  seas, 
and  was  in  a few  hours  landed  safely  at  the  pleasant  watering- 
place  of  Wiston  supermare.  It  wanted  yet  an  hour  or  two  of 
night,  and  therefore  a post-ohaise  was  soon  rolling  the  young 
officer,  his  servant  and  portmanteau,  toward  Bristol,  on  their 
way  to  London.  He  arrived  at  a reasonable  hour,  but  yet  some 
one  of  the  many  things  that  fill  inns,  had  happened  in  Bristol 
that  day,  and  Henry  drove  to  the  Bush,  to  the  Falcon,  and  the 
F w^tain  and  several  others,  before  he  could  get  a place  to  resti 


334 


CHARLES  OMALLEW 


At  length,  he  found  two  comfortable  rooms  in  a small  hotel  near 
the  port  and  had  sat  down  to  his  supper  by  a warm  fire,  when 
an  Irish  sailor  put  his  head  into  the  room,  and  asked  if  he  were 
the  lady  that  was  going  down  to  the  St.  Lawrence  the  next  day? 
Henry  Ashton  informed  him  that  he  was  not  a lady,  and  that, 
as  he  had  just  come  from  the  St.  Lawrence,  he  was  not  going 
back  again,  upon  which  the  man  withdrew  to  seek  further. 

Ten,  eleven,  twelve  o’clock  struck,  and  Henry  Ashton  pulled 
off  his  boots  and  went  to  bed.  At  two  o’clock  he  awoke,  feeling 
heated  and  feverish;  and  to  cool  himself  he  began  to  think  of 
Alice  Herbert.  He  found  it  by  no  means  a good  plan,  for  he 
felt  warmer  than  before;  and  soon  a suffocating  feeling  came 
over  him,  and  he  thought  he  smelt  a strong  smell  of  burning 
wood.  His  bedroom  was  one  of  those  unfortunate  inn  bed- 
rooms that  are  placed  under  the  immediate  care  and  protection 
of  a sitting-room,  which,  like  a Spanish  Duenna,  will  let  nobody 
in  who  does  not  pass  by  their  door.  He  put  on  his  dressing- 
gown,  therefore,  and  issued  out  into  the  sitting-room,  and  there 
the  smell  was  stronger.  There  was  a considerable  crackling  and 
roaring  wliich  had  something  alarming  in  it,  and  he  conse- 
quently opened  the  outer  door,  All  he  could  now  see  was  a thick 
smoke  fiJling  the  corridor,  through  which  came  a red  glare  from 
the  direction  of  the  staircase;  but  he  heard  those  sounds  of 
burning  wood,  which  are  not  to  be  mistaken,  and  in  a minute 
after,  loud  knocking  at  doors,  ringing  of  bells,  and  shouts  of 
“ Fire!  fire!”  showed  that  the  calamity  had  become  apparent  to 
the  people  in  the  street.  He  saw  all  the  rushing  forth  of  naked 
men  and  women,  which  generally  follows  such  a catastrophe, 
and  the  opening  all  the  doors  of  the  house,  as  if  for  the  express 
purpose  of  blowing  the  fire  into  a flame.  There  were  hallooings 
and  shoutings,  there  were  screamings  and  tears,  and  what  be- 
tween the  rushing  sound  of  the  devouring  element  and  the  voice 
of  human  suffering  or  fear,  the  noise  was  enough  to  wake  the 
dead. 

Henry  Ashton  thought  of  his  portmanteau,  and  wondered 
where  his  servant  was;  but  seeing,  by  a number  of  people  driven 
back  from  the  great  staircase  by  flames,  that  there  was  no  time 
to  be  lost,  he  made  his  way  down  by  a smaller  one,  and  in  a 
minute  or  two  reached  the  street.  The  engines  by  this  time  had 
arrived;  an  immense  crowd  was  gathering  together;  the  terri- 
fied tenants  of  the  inn  were  rushing  forth,  and  in  the  midst 
Henry  Ashton  remarked  one  young  woman  wringing  her  hands, 
and  exclaiming:  “ Oh,  my  poor  young  mistress!  my  poor  young 
lady!” 

“Where  is  she,  my  good  girl?”  demanded  the  young  soldier, 

“ In  number  eleven,”  cried  the  girl,  “ in  number  eleven!  Her 
bedroom  is  within  the  sitting-room,  and  she  will  never  hear  the 
noise.” 

“ There  she  is,”  cried  one  of  the  by-standers  who  overheard  ; 
“ there  she  is,  I dare  say.” 

Ashton  looked  up  toward  the  house,  through  the  lower  win- 
dows of  which  the  flames  were  pouring  forth  ; and  across  the 
casement  which  seemed  next  to  the  very  room  he  himself  had 


CHARLKSi  am  ALLEY.  885 

occupied,  he  saw  the  figure  of  a woman,  in  her  night-dress,  pass 
rapidly. 

“A  ladder,”  he  cried,  “ a ladder,  for  God’s  sake!  There  is 
some  one  there,  whoever  it  be!” 

No  ladder  could  be  got,  and  Henry  Ashton  looked  round  in 
vain. 

‘‘  The  back  staircase  is  of  stone,”  he  cried  ; “ she  may  be  saved 
that  way  !” 

“Ay,  but  the  corridor  is  on  fire,”  said  one  of  the  waiters; 
“ you’d  better  not  try,  sir;  it  cannot  be  done.” 

Henry  Ashton  darted  away;  into  the  inn;  up  the  staircase; 
but  the  corridor  was  on  fire,  as  the  man  had  said,  and  the  flames 
rushing  up  to  the  very  door  of  the  rooms  he  had  lately  tenanted. 
He  rushed  on,  however,  recollecting  that  he  had  seen  a side  door 
out  of  his  own  sitting-room.  He  dashed  in,  caught  the  handle 
of  the  lock  of  the  side  door,  and  shook  it  violently,  for  it  was 
fastened. 

“I  will  open  it,”  cried  a voice  from  within,  that  sounded 
strangely  familiar  to  his  ear. 

The  lock  turned — the  door  opened — and  Henry  Ashton  and 
Alice  Herbert  stood  face  to  face. 

“ God  of  Heaven,”  he  exclaimed,  catching  her  in  his  arms. 
But  he  gave  no  time  for  explanation,  and  hurried  back  with  her 
toward  the  door  of  his  own  room.  The  corridor,  however,  was 
impassable. 

“You  will  be  lost !”  he  exclaimed,  holding  her  to  his  heart. 

“And  you  have  thrown  away  your  own  life  to  save  mine!” 
said  Alice. 

“ I will  die  with  you,  at  least,”  replied  Henry  Ashton;  “ that 
is  some  consolation.  But  no,  thank  God,  they  have  got  a ladder 
— they  are  raising  it  up — dear  girl,  you  are  saved !” 

He  felt  Alice  lie  heavy  on  his  bosom;  and  when  he  looked 
down,  whether  it  was  fear,  or  the  affect  of  the  stifling  heat,  or 
hearing  such  words  from  his  lips,  he  found  that  she  had  fainted. 

“It  is  as  \^11,”  he  said;  “it  is  as  well!”  and  as  soon  as  the 
ladder  was  raised,  he  bore  her  out,  holding  her  firmly  yet 
tenderly  to  his  bosom.  There  was  a deathlike  stillness  below. 
The  ladder  shook  under  his  feet;  the  flames  came  forth  and 
licked  the  rounds  on  which  his  steps  were  placed;  but  steadily, 
firmly,  calmly,  the  young  soldier  pursued  his  way.  He  bore  all 
that  he  valued  on  earth  in  his  arms,  and  it  was  no  moment  to 
give  one  thought  to  fear. 

When  his  last  footstep  touched  the  ground,  an  universal  shout 
burst  forth  from  the  crowd  and  even  reached  the  ear  of  Alice 
herself;  but  ere  she  could  recover  completely,  she  was  in 
the  comfortable  drawing-room  of  a good  merchant’s  house,  some 
way  further  down  the  same  street. 

The  St.  Laiorence  sailed  on  the  following  day  for  Quebec,  and 
as  you  well  know,  went  down  in  the  terrible  hurricane  which 
swept  the  Atlantic  in  the  summer  of  that  year,  bearing  with  her 
to  the  depths  of  the  ocean,  every  living  thing  that  she  had 
carried  out  from  England.  But  on  the  day  that  she  weighed 
anchor,  Alice  sat  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  merchant’s  house, 


336 


CHABLES  0^ MALLE  Y. 


with  her  hand  clasped  in  that  of  Henry  Ashton ; and  ere  many 
months  were  over,  the  tears  for  those  dear  beings  she  had  lost 
were  chased  by  happier  drops,  as  she  gave  her  hand  to  the  man 
she  loved  with  all  the  depth  of  her  first  affection,  but  whom  she 
would  never  have  seen  again,  had  it  not  been  for  The  Fire. 


Such,  my  dear  Lorrequer,  is  the  story;  and  now  let  us  consider 
what  can  be  done  to  remedy  the  burning  of  your  new*number. 
On  my  honor,  I see  nothing  for  it,  but  to  publish  the  “O’Malley 
Correspondence  ” on  the  subject,  with  a portrait  of  the  fire- 
engine,  and  a wood-cut  of  Fire. 

Think  of  it,  my  dear  fellow,  and  whether  you  take  my  advice 
or  not  believe  me  ever  yours, 

G.  P.  R.  James. 


CHAPTER  LXVIII. 

THE  doctor’s  tale.* 

“ It  is  now  some  fifteen  years  since — if  it  wasn’t  for  O’Shaugli- 
nessy’s  wrinkles  I could  not  believe  it  five — we  were  gartered 
in  Loughrea;  there  were  besides  our  regiment,  the  Fifteenth 
and  the  Seventy-  third,  and  a troop  or  two  of  horse  artillery, 
and  the  whole  town  was  literally  a barrack,  and,  as  you  may 
suppose,  the  pleasantest  place  imaginable.  All  the  young  la- 
dies, and,  indeed,  all  those  that  had  got  their  brevet  some  years 
before,  came  fiocking  into  the  town,  not  knowing  but  the  devil 
might  persuade  a raw  ensign  or  so  to  marry  some  of  them. 

“Such  dinner  parties — such  routs  and  balls-— never  were 
heard  of  west  of  Athlone.  The  gayeties  were  incessant;  and  if 
good  feeling,  plenty  of  claret,  short  whist,  country  dances,  and 
kissing,  could  have  done  the  thing,  there  wouldn’t  have  been  a 
bachelor  with  a red’  coat  for  six-  miles  around. 

“You  know  the  west,  O’Mealey;  so  I needn’t  tell  you  what 
the  Galway  girls  are  like;  fine,  hearty,  free-and-eiisy,  talking, 
laughing  devils;  but  as  deep  and  as  cute  as  a master  in  chan- 
cery— ready  for  any  fun  or  merriment;  but  always  keeping 
a sly  look-out  for  a proposal  or  a tender  acknowledgment, 
which — what  between  the  heat  of  a ball-room,  whisky-negus, 
white  satin  shoes,  and  a quarrel  with  your  guardian — it’s  ten  to 
one  you  fall  into  before  you’re  a week  in  the  same  town  with 
them. 

“As  for  the  men,  I don’t  admire  them  so  much;  pleasant  and 
cheerful  enough,  when  they’re  handicapping  the  coat  off  your 

* I cannot  permit  the  reader  to  fall  into  the  same  blunder  with  regard 
to  the  worthy  “ Maurice”  as  my  friend,  Charles  O’Malley,  has  done.  It  is 
only  fair  to  state  that  the  Doctor,  in  the  fo”,Dwing  tale,  was  hoaxing  the 
“Dragoon.”  A braver  and  a better  fellow  than  Quill  never  existed; 
equally  beloved  by  his  brother  officers,  as  delighted  in  for  his  convivial 
talents.  His  favorite  amusement  was  to  invent  some  story  or  adventure, 
in  which,  mixing  up  his  own  name  with  that  of  some  friend  or  companion, 
the  veracity  of  the  whole  was  never  questioned.  Of  this  nature  was  the 
pedigree  he  devised  in  th©  last  chapter  to  impose  upon  O’Malley,  who 
believed  implicitly  all  he  told  him.  Harry  Lorrequer. 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


337 


bacK,  and  your  new  tilbury  for  a spavined  pony  and  a cotton 
umbrella— but  regular  devils  if  you  come  to  cross  them  the  least 
in  life;  nothing  but  ten  paces— ythree  shots  apiece — to  begin  and 
end  with  something  like  Roger  de  Cover  ley,  when  every  one  has 
a pull  at  his  neighbor.  I’m  not  saying  they’re  not  agreeable, 
well  informed  and  mild  in  their  habits;  but  they  lean  over- 
much to  corduroys  and  coroners’  inquests  for  one’s  taste  further 
south.  However,  they’re  a fine  people,  take  them  all  in  all;  and 
if  they’re  not  interfered  with,  and  their  national  customs  in- 
vaded with  road-making,  petty  sessions,  grand  jury  laws,  and 
a stray  commission  now  and  then — they  are  capable  of  great 
things,  and  would  astonish  the  world. 

‘‘But,  as  I was  saying,  we  were  ordered  to  Loughrea,  after 
being  fifteen  months  in  detachments  about  Birr,  Tillamore, 
Kilbeggan,  and  all  that  country;  the  change  was,  indeed,  a de- 
lightful one;  and  we  soon  found  ourselves  the  center  of  the  most 
marked  and  determined  civilities.  I told  you  they  were  wise 
people  in  the  west;  this  was  their  calculation;  the  line — ours  was 
the  Roscommon  militia — are  here  to-day,  there  to-morrow;  they 
may  be  flirting  in  Tralee  this  week,  and  fighting  on  the  Tagus 
the  next;  not  that  there  was  any  fighting  there  in  those  times, 
but  then  there  was  always  Nova  Scotia  and  St.  John’s,  and  a 
hundred  other  places  that  a Galway  young  lady  knew  nothing 
about,  except  that  people  never  came  back  from  them.  Now 
what  good,  what  use  was  there  in  falling  in  love  with  them  ? 
mere  transitory  and  passing  pleasures  that  was.  But  as  for  us, 
there  we  were;  ifj  not  in  Kilkenny  we  were  in  Cork.  Save  cut 
and  come  again,  no  getting  away  under  pretense  of  foreign  serv- 
ice; no  excuse  for  not  marrying  by  any  cruel  pictures  of  the 
colonies,  where  they  make  spatch  cocks  of  the  officers’  wives, 
and  scrape  their  infant  families  to  death  with  a small  tooth 
comb.  In  a word,  my  dear  O’Mealey,  we  were  at  a high  pre- 
mium; and  even  O’Shaughnessy,  with  his  red  head  and  the  legs, 
you  see,  had  his  admirers — there  now,  don’t  be  angry,  Dan — the 
men,  at  least,  were  mighty  partial  to  you. 

“ Loughrea,  if  it  was  a pleasant,  was  a very  expensive  place. 
White  gloves  and  car  hire — there  wasn’t  a chaise  in  the  town — 
short  whist,  too,  (God  forgive  me  if  I wrong  them,  but  I won- 
der were  they  honost  ?)  cost  money,  and  as  our  popularity  rose, 
our  purses  fell,  till  at  length  when  the  one  was  at  the  flood, 
the  other  was  something  like  very  low  water. 

“Now,  the  Roscommon  was  a beautiful  corps — no  petty  jeal- 
ousies, no  little  squabbling  amojjg  the  officers,  no  small  spleen 
between  the  Major’s  wife  and  the  Paymaster’s  sister — all  was 
amiable,  kind,  brotherly  and  affectionate.  To  proceed:  I need 
only  mention  one  fine  trait  of  them;  no  man  ever  refused  to  en- 
dorse a brother  officer’s  bill — to  think  of  asking  the  amount  , 
or  even  the  date,  would  be  taken  personally;  and  thus  we  went 
on  mutually  aiding  and  assisting  each  other— the  Colonel  draw- 
ing on  me,  I on  the  Major,  the  senior  Captain  on  the  Surgeon, 
and  so  on — a regular  cross  fire  of  ‘ promises  to  pay,’  all  stamped 
and  reiynlpr. 


338 


CHARLES  aUALLEY, 


“ Not  but  that  the  system  had  its  inconveniences — for  some- 
times an  obstinate  tailor  or  bootmaker  would  make  a row  for 
his  money,  and  then  we’d  be  obliged  to  get  up  a little  quarrel 
between  the  drawer  and  acceptor  of  the  bill;  they  couldn’t 
speak  for  some  days;  and  a mutual  friend  to  both  would  tell  the 
creditor  that  the  slightest  imprudence  on  his  part  would  lead 
to  bloodslied;  and  the  Lord  help  him! — if  there  was  a duel — he’d 
be  proved  the  whole  cause  of  it.  This,  and  twenty  other 
plans  were  employed,  and  finally  the  matter  would  be  left  to  an 
arbitration  among  our  brother  officers;  and,  I need  not  say,  they 
behaved  like  trumps.  But,  notwithstanding  all  this,  we  were 
frequently  hard  pressed  for  cash;  as  the  Colonel  said:  ‘It’s  a 
mighty  expensive  corps.’  Our  dress  was  costly,  not  that  it  had 
much  lace  and  gold  on  it,  but  that  what  between  falling  on  the 
road  at  night,  shindies  at  mess,  and  other  devilment,  a coat 
lasted  no  time.  Wine,  too,  was  heavy  on  us;  for,  though  we 
often  changed  our  wine  merchant,  and  rarely  paid  him,  there 
was  an  awful  consumption  at  the  mess! 

“ Now  what  I have  mentioned  may  prepare  you  for  the  fact, 
that  before  we  were  eight  weeks  in  garrison,  Shaugh  and  my- 
self, upon  an  accurate  calculation  of  our  conjoint  finances,  dis- 
covered that,  except  some  vague  promises  of  discounting  here 
and  there  through  the  town,  and  seven  and  fourpence  in  specie, 
we  were  innocent  of  any  pecuniary  treasures.  This  was  embar- 
rassing; we  had  both  embarked  in  several  small  schemes  of 
pleasurable  amusement — had  a couple  of  hunters  each,  a tandem, 
and  a running  account — I think  it  galloped — at  every  shop  in 
the  town 

“ Let  me  pause  for  a moment  here,  O’Mealey,  while  I moral- 
ize a little  in  a strain  I hope  may  benefit  you.  Have  you  ever 
considered — of  course  you  have  not,  you’re  too  young  and  unre- 
flecting— how  beautifully  every  climate  and  every  soil  possesses 
some  one  antidote  or  another  to  its  own  noxious  influences  ? The 
tropics  have  their  succulent  and  juicy  fruits,  cooling  and  re- 
freshing; the  northern  latitudes  have  their  beasts  with  fur  and 
warm  skins,  to  keep  out  the  frost-bites,  and  so  it  is  in  Ireland. 
Nowhere  on  the  face  of  the  habitable  globe  does  a man  contract 
such  habits  of  small  debt,  and  nowhere.  I’ll  be  sworn,  can  he  so 
easily  get  out  of  any  scrape  concerning  them.  They  have  their 
tigers  in  the  east,  their  antelopes  in  the  south,  their  white  bears 
in  Norw^ay,  their  buffaloes  in  America;  but  we  have  an  animal 
in  Ireland  that  beats  them  all  hollow — a country  attorney. 

“Now,  let  me  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Matthew  Donevan.  Mat, 
as  he  was  familiarly  called  by  his  numerous  acquaintances,  was 
a short,  florid,  rosy  little  gentleman  of  some  four  or  five  and 
forty,  with  a well-curled  wig  of  the  fairest  imaginable  auburn, 
the  gentle  wave  of  the  front  locks,  which  played  in  infantine 
loveliness  upon  his  little  bullet  forehead  contrasting  strongly 
enough  with  a cunning  leer  of  his  eye,  and  a certain  nisi  prius 
laugh,  that,  however  it  might  please  a client,  rarely  brought 
pleasurable  feelings  to  his  opponent  in  a cause. 

“Mat  was  a character  in  his  w^ay;  deep,  double,  and  tricky  in 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


839 


everything  that  concerned  his  profession,  he  affected  the  gay 
fellow — liked  a jolly  dinner  at  Brown’s  hotel — would  go  twenty 
miles  to  see  a steeple  chase  and  a coursing  match — bet  with  any 
one,  when  the  odds  were  strong  in  his  favor,  with  an  easy  indif- 
ference about  money  that  made  him  seem,  when  winning,  rather 
the  victim  of  good  luck  than  anything  else.  As  he  kept  a rathei 
pleasant  bachelor’s  house,  and  liked  the  military  much,  we  soon 
became  acquainted.  Upon  him,  therefore,  for  reasons  I can’t 
explain,  both  our  hopes  reposed;  and  Shaugh  and  myself  at  once 
agreed,  that  if  Mat  could  not  assist  us  in  our  distresses,  the  case 
was  a bad  one. 

“ A pretty  little  epistle  was  accordingly  concocted,  inviting 
the  worthy  attorney  to  a small  dinner  at  five  o’clock  the  next 
day,  intimating  that  we  were  to  be  perfectly  alone,  and  had 
a little  business  to  discuss.  True  to  the  hour,  Mat  was  there, 
and,  as  if  instantly  guessing  that  ours  was  no  regular  party  of 
pleasure,  his  look,  dress,  and  manner,  were  all  in  keeping  with 
the  occasion — quiet,  subdued,  and  searching. 

‘‘ When  the  claret  had  been  superseded  by  the  whisky,  and 
the  confidential  hours  were  approaching,  by  an  adroit  allusion 
to  some  heavy  wager  then  pending,  we  brought  our  finances 
upon  the  tapis.  The  thing  was  done  beautifully;  an  easy  adagio 
movement — no  violent  transition — but  hang  me  if  old  Mat  didn’t 
catch  the  matter  at  once. 

“‘Oh  I it’s  there  ye  are,  Captain,’  said  he,  with  his  peculiar 
grin;  ‘ two  and  sixpence  in  the  pound,  and  no  assets.” 

“ ‘The  last  is  nearest  the  mark,  my  old  boy,’  said  Shaugh, 
blurting  out  the  whole  truth  at  once.  The  wiley  attorney  fin- 
ished his  tumbler  slowly,  as  if  giving  himself  time  for  refiection, 
and  then  smacking  his  lips  in  a preparatory  manner,  took  a quick 
survey  of  the  room  with  his  piercing  green  eye. 

“ ‘ A very  sweet  mare  of  yours,  that  little  mouse-colored  one 
is,  with  the  dip  in  the  back,  and  she  has  a trifling  curb — maybe  it’s 
a spavin,  indeed — in  the  near  hind  leg.  You  gave  five-and- 
twenty  for  her  now.  I’ll  be  bound  T 

“ ‘Sixty  guineas,  as  sure’s  my  name’s  Danl’  said  Shaugh,  not 
at  all  pleased  atthe  value  put  upon  his  hackney  ; ‘ and  as  to  spavin 
or  curb.  I’ll  wager  double  the  sum  she  has  neither  the  slightest 
trace  of  one  nor  the  other.’ 

“ ‘ I’ll  not  take  the  bet,’  said  Mat,  dryly;  ‘ money’s  scarce  in 
these  parts.’ 

“This  hit  silenced  us  both;  and  our  friend  continued: 

“ ‘ Then  there’s  the  bay  horse,  a great,  strapping  leggy  beast 
he  is  for  a tilbury;  and  the  hunters,  worth  nothing  here;  they 
don’t  know  this  country — them’s  neat  pistols—  and  the  tilbury  is 
not  bad ’ 

“ ‘ Confound  you!’  said  I,  losing  all  patience,  ‘ we  didn’t  ask 
you  here  to  appraise  our  moveables;  we  want  to  raise  the  wind 
without  that.’ 

“ ‘ I see — I perceive,’  said  Mat,  taking  a pinch  of  snuff  very 
leisurely  as  he  spoke;  ‘ I see.  Well,  that  is  difficult — very  diffi- 
-cult  just  now.  I’ve  mortgaged  every  acre  of  ground  in  the  two 


340 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


counties  near  us,  and  a sixpence  more  is  not  to  be  obtained  in 
that  way.  Are  you  lucky  at  the  races  ?’ 

“ ‘ Never  win  a sixpence.’ 

“ ‘ What  can  you  do  at  whist  ?’ 

“ ‘ Eevoke,  and  get  cursed  by  my  partner;  devil  a more.’ 

‘‘  ‘That’s  mighty  bad,  for  otherwise  we  might  arrange  some- 
thing for  you.  Well,  I only  see  one  thing  for  it;  you  must  marry 
— a wife  with  some  money  will  get  you  out  of  your  present  diffi- 
culties, and  we’ll  manage  that  easy  enough.’ 

“‘Come,  Dan,’  said  I,  for  Shaugh  was  dropping  asleep, 
‘ cheer  up,  old  fellow.  Donevan  has  found  the  way  to  pull  us 
through  our  misfortunes.  A girl  with  forty  thousand  pounds, 
the  best  cock  shooting  in  Ireland;  an  old  family,  a capital  cellar, 
all  await  ye — rouse  up,  there!’ 

“ ‘I’m  convanient,’  said  Shaugh,  with  a look  intended  to  be 
knowing,  but  really  very  tipsy. 

“ ‘I  didn’t  say  much  for  her  personal  attractions.  Captain,’ 
said  Mat;  ‘ nor,  indeed,  did  I specify  the  exact  sum;  but  Mrs. 
Rogers  Dooley  of  Clonakilty  might  be  a princess ’ 

“ ‘ And  so  she  shall  be,  Mat;  the  O’Shaughnessys  were  kings 
of  Ennis  in  the  time  of  Nero,  and  I’m  only  waiting  for  a trifle  of 
money  to  revive  the  title.  What’s  her  name  ?’ 

“ ‘ Mrs.  Rogers  Dooley.’ 

“ ‘ Here’s  her  health,  and  long  life  to  her: 

“ ‘And  may  the  devil  cut  the  toes 
Of  all  her  foes, 

That  we  may  know  them  by  their  limping.’ 

“ This  benevolent  wish  uttered,  Dan  fell  flat  upon  the  hearth- 
^^nig,  and  was  soon  sound  asleep.  I must  hasten  on;  so  need  only 
pnay  that,  before  we  parted  that  night.  Mat  and  myself  had  fin- 
ished the  half-gallon  bottle  of  Loughrea  whisky,  and  concluded 
a treaty  for  the  hand  and  fortune  of  Mrs.  Rogers  Dooley;  he  be- 
ing guaranteed  a very  handsome  percentage  on  the  property, 
and  the  lady  being  reserved  for  choice  between  Dan  and  myself, 
which,  however,  I w^as  determined  should  fall  upon  my  more 
fortunate  friend. 

“ The  first  object  which  presented  itself  to  my  aching  senses 
the  following  morning,  was  a very  spacious  card  of  invitation 
from  Mr.  Jonas  Malone,  requesting  me  to  favor  him  with  the 
seductions  of  my  society  the  next  evening  at  a ball.  At  the  bot- 
tom of  which,  in  Mr.  Donevan’s  hand,  I read: 

“ ‘ Don’t  fail;  you  know  who  is  to  be  there.  I’ve  not  been  idle 
since  I saw  you.  Would  the  Captain  take  twenty-five  for  the 
mare  ?’ 

“ So  far  so  good,  thought  I,  as  entering  O’Shaughnessy’s  quar- 
ters, I discovered  him  endeavoring  to  spell  out  his  card,  which, 
however,  had  no  postscript.  We  soon  agreed  that  Mat  should 
have  his  price;  so,  sending  a polite  answer  to  the  invitation,  we 
dispatched  a still  more  civil  note  to  the  attorney,  and  begged  of 
him,  as  a weak  mark  of  esteem,  to  accept  the  mouse-colored 
mare  as  a present. 


CHARLES  a M ALLEY.  341 

“ Here  O’Shaughnessy  sighed  deeply,  and  even  seemed  affect- 
ed by  the  souvenir. 

Come,  Dan,  we  did  it  all  for  the  best.  Oh!  O’Malley,  he  was 
a cunning  fellow;  but  no  matter.  We  went  to  the  ball,  and,  to 
be  sure,  it  was  a great  sight.  Two  hundred  and  fifty  souls,  where 
there  was  not  good  room  for  the  odd  fifty;  such  laughing,  such 
squeezing,  such  pressing  of  hands  and  waists  on  the  staircase! 
and  then  such  a row  and  riot  at  the  top-  -four  fiddles,  a key  bu- 
gle, and  a bagpipe,  playing,  ‘ Haste  to  the  wedding,’  amid  the 
crash  of  refreshment  trays,  the  tramp  of  feet,  and  the  sounds  of 
merriment  on  all  sides! 

It’s  only  in  Ireland,  after  all,  people  have  fun;  old  and  young 
— merry  and  morose,  the  gay  and  cross  grained — are  crammed 
into  a lively  country  dance;  and,  ill- matched,  ill-suited,  go 
jigging  away  together  to  the  blast  of  a bad  band,  till  their 
heads,  half  turned  by  the  noise,  the  heat,  the  novelty,  and 
the  hubbub,  they  all  get  as  tipsy  as  if  they  were  really  deep 
in  liquor. 

“ Then  there  is  that  particularly  free-and-easy  tone  in  every 
one  about;  here  go  a couple  capering  daintily  out  of  the  ball- 
room to  take  a little  fresh  air  on  the  stairs,  where  every  step  has 
its  own  separate  flirtation  party;  there,  a riotous  old  gentle- 
man, with  a boarding-school  girl  for  his  partner  has  plunged 
smack  into  a party  at  loo,  upsetting  cards  and  counters;  and 
drawing  down  curses  innumerable.  Here  are  a merry  knot 
round  the  refreshments,  and  well  they  may  be;  for  the  negus  is 
strong  punch,  and  the  biscuit  is  tipsy  cake — and  all  this  with  a 
running  fire  of  good  stories,  jokes,  and  witticisms  on  all  sides, 
in  the  laughter  at  which,  even  the  droll-looking  servants  join  as 
heartily  as  the  rest. 

‘‘  We  were  not  long  in  finding  out  Mrs.  Eogers,  who  sat  in  the 
middle  of  a very  high  sofa,  with  her  feet  just  touching  the  floor. 
She  was  short,  fat,  wore  her  hair  in  a drop,  had  a species  of  shin- 
ing yellow  skin,  and  a turned  up  nose,  all  of  which  were  by  no 
means  prepossessing.  Shaugh  and  myself  were  too  hard-up  to 
be  particular,  and  so  we  invited  her  to  dance  alternately  for  two 
consecutive  hours,  plying  her  assiduously  with  negus  during  the 
lulls  of  the  music. 

“ Supper  was  at  last  announced,  and  enabled  us  to  recruit  for 
new  efforts;  and  so.  after  an  awful  consumption  of  fowl,  pigeon- 
pie,  ham,  and  brandy-cherries,  Mrs.  Eogers  brightened  up  con- 
siderably, and  professed  her  willingness  to  join  the  dancers.  As 
for  us,  partly  from  exhaustion,  partly  to  stimulate  our  energies, 
and  in  some  degree  to  drown  reflection,  we  drank  deep,  and 
when  we  reached  the  drawing-room,  not  only  the  agreeable 
guests  themselves,  but  even  the  furniture,  the  venerable  chairs 
and  the  stiff  old  sofa  seemed  performing  ‘ Sir  Eoger  de  Coverley.’ 
How  we  conducted  ourselves  till  five  in  the  morning,  let  our 
cramps  confess;  for  we  were  both  bed-ridden  for  ten  days  after; 
however,  at  last,  Mrs  Eogers  gave  in;  and,  reclining  gracefully 
upon  a window-seat,  pronounced  it  a most  elegant  party,  and 
asked  me  to  look  for  her  shawl.  While  I perambulated  the  stair- 


342 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


case  with  her  bonnet  on  my  head,  and  more  wearing  apparel 
than  would  stock  a magazine,  Shaugh  was  roaring  himself  hoarse, 
calling  Mrs.  Eogers’s  coach. 

“ ‘ Sure,  Captain,*  said  the  lady,  with  a tender  leer,  ‘it’s  only 
a chair.* 

“ ‘ And  here  it  is,*  said  I,  surveying  a very  portly-looking  old 
sedan,  newly  painted  and  varnished,  which  blocked  up  half  the 
haU.  , 

“ ‘ You’ll  catch  cold,  my  angel,*  said  Shaugh,  in  a whisper,  i 
for  he  was  coming  it  very  strong  by  this;  ‘get  into  the  chair.  ' 
Maurice,  can’t  you  find  those  fellows?’  said  he  to  me;  for  the 
chairmen  had  gone  down  stairs,  and  were  making  very  merry 
among  the  servants. 

“ ‘She’s  fast,  now,*  said  I,  shutting  the  door  to.  ‘ Let  us  do 
the  gallant  thing,  and  carry  her  home  ourselves.’  Shaugh 
thought  this  a great  notion,  and,  in  a minute,  we  mounted  the 
poles,  and  sallied  forth,  amid  a great  chorus  of  laughing  from  all 
the  footmen,  maids,  and  tea-boys  that  filled  the  passage. 

“‘The  big  house,  with  the  bow  window  and  the  pillars, 
Captain,*  said  a fellow,  as  we  issued  upon  our  journey. 

“ ‘ I know  it,*  said  I.  ‘ Turn  to  the  left  after  you  pass  the 
square.* 

“ ‘ Isn*t  she  heavy  ?*  said  Shaugh,  as  he  meandered  across  the 
narrow  streets  wdth  a sidelong  motion,  that  must  have  suggest- 
ed to  our  fair  inside  passenger  some  notions  of  a sea  voyage. 
In  truth,  I must  confess,  her  progress  was  rather  a devious  one; 
now  zigzagging  from  side  to  side;  now  getting  into  a sharp  trot, 
and  then  suddenly  pulling  up  at  a dead  stop,  or  running  the 
machine  chuck  against  a wall,  to  enable  us  to  stand  still  and 
gain  breath. 

“ ‘ Which  way,  now  ?’  cried  he,  as  w^e  swmng  round  the  angle 
of  the  street,  and  entered  the  large  marketplace;  ‘I’m  getting 
terribly  tired.’ 

“ ‘ Never  give  in,  Dan;  think  of  Clonakilty,  and  the  old  lady 
herself  ’ — and  here  I gave  the  chair  a hoist  that  evidently  aston- 
ished our  fair  friend,  for  a very  imploring  cry  issued  forth  im- 
mediately after. 

“‘To  the  right,  quick  step,  forward — charge!’  cried  I;  and 
we  set  off  at  a brisk  trot  down  a steep,  narrow  lane. 

“ ‘ Here  it  is  now — the  light  in  the  window;  cheer  up!* 

“ ‘ As  I said  this,  we  came  shortly  up  to  a fine,  portly  - 
looking  door-w^ay  with  great  stone  pillars  and  cornice. 

“ ‘ Make  yourself  at  home,  Maurice,*  said  he;  ‘bring  her  in;’ 
and  so  saying  we  pushed  forward,  for  the  door  was  open,  and 
passed  boldly  into  a great  flagged  hall,  silent  and  cold , and  dark 
as  the  night  itself. 

“ ‘Are  you  sure  we’re  right?”  said  he. 

“ All  right,’  said  I,  ‘ go  ahead.* 

And  so  we  did  till  we  came  in  sight  of  a small  candle  that 
burned  dimly  at  a distance  from  us. 

“ ‘Make  for  the  light,*  said  I:  but  just  as  I said  so,  Shaugh 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


3^43 

slipped  and  fell  fiat  on  the  flag  way;  the  noise  of  his  fall  sent  up 
a hundred  echoes  in  the  silent  building,  and  terrified  us  both 
dreadfully;  and,  after  a minute’s  pause,  by  one  consent,  we 
turned  and  made  for  the  door,  falling  almost  at  every  step,  and 
frightened  out  of  our  senses,  we  came  tumbling  together  into 
the  porch,  and  out  into  the  street,  and  never  drew  breath  till 
' we  reached  the  barracks.  Meanwhile,  let  me  return  to  Mrs 
Rogers.  The  dear  old  lady,  who  had  passed  an  awful  time  since 
she  left  the  ball,  had  just  rallied  out  of  a fainting  fit  when  we 
took  to  our  heels;  so,  after  screaming  and  crying  her  best,  she  at 
last  managed  to  open  the  top  of  the  chair,  and  by  dint  of  great 
exertions  succeeded  in  forcing  the  door,  and  at  length  freed  her- 
self from  bondage.  She  was  leisurely  groping  her  way  round  it 
in  the  dark,  when  her  lamentations,  being  heard  without,  woke 
up  the  old  sexton  of  the  chapel — for  it  was  tliere  we  placed  her — 
who,  entering  cautiously  with  a light,  no  sooner  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  great  black  sedan  and  the  figure  beside  it,  than 
he  also  took  to  his  heels,  and  ran  like  a madman  to  the  priest’s 
house. 

‘‘  ‘ Come,  your  reverence,  come,  for  the  love  of  marcy!  sure, 
didn’t  I see  him  myself!  O wirra,  wirra!’ 

“ ‘ What  is  it,  ye  ould  fool  ?’  said  M’Kenny. 

<<  < It’p  Father  Con  Doran,  your  reverence,  that  was  buried  last 
week,  and  there  he  is  up  now,  coffin  and  all!  saying  a midnighfr 
mass  as  lively  as  ever.’ 

‘‘Poor  Mrs.  Rogers,  God  help  her!  It  was  a trying  sight  for 
her  when  the  priest  and  the  two  coadjutors,  and  the  three  little 
boys  and  the  sexton,  all  came  in  to  lay  her  spirit;  and  the  shock 
she  received  that  night,  they  say,  she  never  got  over. 

“Need  say,  my  dear  O’Mealey,  that  our  acquaintance  with 
Mrs.  Rogers  was  closed  ? The  dear  woman  had  a hard  struggle 
for  it  afterward — her  character  was  assailed  by  all  the  elderly 
ladies  in  Loughrea,  for  going  off  in  our  company;  and  her  blue 
satin  piped  with  scarlet,  utterly  ruined  by  a deluge  of  holy 
water  bestowed  on  her  by  the  pious  sexton.  It  was  in  vain 
that  she  originated  twenty  different  reports  to  mystify  the 
world;  and  even  ten  pounds  spent  in  masses  for  the  eternal  re- 
pose of  Father  Con  Doran  only  increased  the  laughter  this  un- 
• fortunate  affair  gave  rise  to.  As,  for  us,  we  exchanged  into  the 
Line,  and  foreign  service  took  us  out  of  the  road  of  duns,  debts, 
and  devilment,  and  we  soon  reformed  and  eschewed  such  low 
company. 


The  day  was  breaking  ere  we  separated,  and  amidst  the  rich 
and  fragrant  vapors  that  exhaled  from  the  earth,  the  faint 
traces  of  sunlight  dimly  stealing  told  of  the  morning.  My  two 
friends  set  out  for  Torrijos,  and  I pushed  boldly  forward  in  the 
direction  of  the  Alberche. 

It  was  a strange  thing,  that  although  but  two  days  before  the 
roads  we  were  then  traveling  had  been  the  line  of  retreat  of  the 


344 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


whole  French  army — yet  not  a vestige  of  their  equipment,  nor  a 
trace  of  their  materiel  had  been  left  behind — in  vain  we 
searched  each  thicket  by  the  way-side  for  some  straggling 
soldier,  some  wounded  or  wearied  man;  nothing  of  the  kind 
was  to  be  seen.  Except  the  deeply  rutted  road  torn  by  the 
heavy  wheels  of  the  artillery,  and  the  white  ashes  of  a wood 
fire,  nothing  marked  their  progress. 

Our  journey  was  a lonely  one.  Not  a man  was  to  be  met 
with — the  houses  stood  untenanted,  the  doors  lay  open-^ 
no  smoke  wreathed  from  their  deserted  hearths — the  peasantry 
had  taken  to  the  mountains,  and  although  the  plains  were  yel- 
low with  the  ripe  harvest,  and  the  peach  hung  temptingly  upon 
the  trees,  all  was  deserted  and  forsaken.  I had  often  seen  the 
blackened  walls  and  broken  rafters,  the  traces  of  the  wild  re- 
venge and  reckless  pillage  of  a retiring  army.  The  ruined  castle 
and  the  desecrated  altar  are  sad  things  to  look  upon — but  some- 
how, a far  heavier  depression  sunk  into  my  heart  as  my  eye 
ranged  over  the  wide  valleys  and  broad  hills,  all  redolent  of 
comfort,  of  beauty,  and  of  happiness,  and  yet  not  one  man  to 
say  this  is  my  home,  these  are  my  household  gods — the  birds 
caroled  gayly  in  each  leafy  thicket,  the  bright  stream  sung 
merrily  as  it  rippled  through  the  rocks,  the  tall  corn  gently 
stirred  by  the  breeze  seemed  to  swell  the  concert  of  sweet  sounds, 
but  no  human  voice  awoke  the  echoes  there.  It  was  as  if  the 
earth  was  speaking  in  thankfulness  to  its  Maker — while  man, 
ungrateful  and  unworthy  man,  pursuing  his  ruthless  path  of 
devastation  and  destruction,  had  left  no  being  to  say — “ I thank 
thee  for  all  these."' 

The  day  was  closing  as  we  drew  near  the  Alberche,  and  came 
in  sight  of  the  watch-fires  of  the  enemy.  Far  as  the  eye  could 
reach  their  columns  extended;  but  in  the  dim  twilight  nothing 
could  be  seen  with  accuracy,  yet,  from  the  position  their  artil- 
lery occupied,  and  the  unceasing  din  of  baggage-wagons  and 
heavy  carriages  toward  the  rear,  I came  to  the  conclusion  that 
a still  further  retreat  was  meditated.  A picket  of  light  cavalry 
were  posted  upon  the  river’s  bank,  and  seemed  to  watch  with 
vigilance  the  approaches  to  the  stream. 

Our  bivouac  was  a dense  copse  of  pine  trees,  exactly  oppo- 
site to  the  French  advanced  posts,  and  there  we  passed  the  night 
—fortunately  a calm  and  starlight  one,  for  we  dared  not  light 
fires,  fearful  of  attracting  attention. 

During  the  long  hours  I lay  patiently  watching  the  move- 
ments of  the  enemy  till  the  dark  shadows  hid  all  from  my 
sight;  and  even  then,  as  my  ears  caught  the  challenge  of  a sen- 
try, or  the  footsteps  of  some  officer  in  his  roimd,  my  thoughts 
were  riveted  upon  them,  and  a hundred  vague  fancies  as  to  the 
future  were  based  upon  no  stronger  foundation  than  the  click  of 
a firelock,  or  the  low  muttered  song  of  a patrol. 

Toward  morning  I slept;  and  when  day  broke  my  first  glance 
was  toward  the  river-side;  but  the  French  were  gone.  Noise- 
leesly,  rapidly,  like  one  man.  that  vast  army  had  departed;  and 


CBARLES  aMALLEY. 


845 


a dense  column  of  dust  toward  the  horizon  alone  marked  the 
long  line  of  march  where  the  martial  legions  were  retreating. 

My  mission  was  thus  ended,  and  hastily  partaking  of  the  hum* 
ble  breakfast  my  friend  Mike  provided  for  me,  I once  more  set 
out,  and  took  the  road  toward  headquarters 


[END  OF  PART  I.J 


I 


J 

« 'i 


CHARLES  O’MALLEY, 


IRISH  DRAGOON. 


PART  II. 


BY  CHARLES  LEVER. 


CHAPTER  LXIX. 


THE  SKIRMISH. 


For  several  months  after  the  battle  of  Talavera  my  life  pre- 
sented nothing  which  I feel  worth  recording.  Our  good  fortune 
seemed  to  have  deserted  us  when  our  hopes  were  highest;  for 
from  the  day  of  that  splendid  victory  we  began  our  retrograde 
movement  upon  Portugal.  Pressed  hard  by  overwhelming 
masses  of  the  enemy,  we  saw  the  fortresses  of  Ciudad  Rodrigo 
and  Almeida  fall  successively  into  their  hands.  The  Spaniards 
were  defeated^wherever  they  ventured  upon  a battle;  and  our 
own  troops,  thinned  by  sickness  and  desertion,  presented  but  a 
shadow  of  that  brilliant  army  which  only  a few  months  previ- 
ous had  followed  the  retiring  French  beyond  the  frontiers  of 
Portugal. 

However  willing  I now  am — and  who  is  not  ? — to  recognize 
the  genius  and  foresight  of  that  great  man  who  then  had  the 
destinies  of  the  Peninsula  within  his  hands,  I confess,  at  the 
time  I speak  of,  I could  ill  comprehend  and  still  less  feel  con- 
tented with  the  successive  retreats  our  forces  made,  and  while 
the  words  Torres  Vedias  brought  nothing  to  my  mind  but  the 
last  resting-place  before  embarkation,  the  sad  fortunes  of  Co- 
runna were  now  before  me,  and  it  was  with  a gloomy  and  de- 
sponding spirit  I followed  the  routine  of  my  daily  duty. 

During  these  weary  months,  if  my  life  was  devoid  of  stirring 
interest  or  adventure,  it  was  not  profitless.  Constantly  employed 
at  the  outposts,  I became  thorougly  inured  to  all  the  roughing  of 
a soldier’s  life,  and  learned  in  the  best  of  schools  that  tacit  obedi- 


9 


CBAELES  aMALLF^Y. 


ence  which  alone  can  form  the  subordinate,  or  ultimately  fits  its 
possessor  for  command  himself. 

Humble  and  unobtrusive  as  such  a career  must  ever  be,  it 
was  not  without  its  occasional  rewards.  From  General  Craw- 
ford I more  than  once  obtained  most  kind  mention  in  his  dis- 
patches, and  felt  Fiat  I was  not  unknown  or  unnoticed  by  Sir 
Arthur  Wellesley  himself.  At  that  time,  these  testimonies, 
slight  and  passing  as  they  were,  contributed  to  the  pride  and 
glory  of  my  existence;  and  even  now — shall  I confess  it? — 
when  some  gray  hairs  are  mingling  with  the  brown,  and  when 
my  old  dragoon  swagger  is  taming  down  into  a kind  of  half- 
pay  shamble,  I feel  my  heart  warm  at  the  recollection  of  them. 

Be  it  so:  I care  not  who  smiles  at  the  avowal.  1 know  of  lit- 
tle better  worth  remembering  as  we  grow  old  than  what  pleased 
us  while  we  were  young.  With  the  memory  of  the  kind  words 
once  spoken,  come  back  the  still  kinder  looks  of  those  who 
spoke  them;  and,  hotter  than  all,  that  early  feeling  of  budding 
manhood,  when  thcxe  was  neither  fear  nor  distrust.  Alas!  these 
are  the  things,  and  not  weak  eyes  and  tottering  limbs,  which 
form  the  burden  of  old  age.  Oh,  if  we  could  only  go  on  believ- 
ing, go  on  trusting,  go  on  hoping  to  the  last,  [who  would  shed 
tears  for  the  by-gone  feats  of  his  youthful  days,  when  the  spirit 
that  evoked  them  lived  young  and  vivid  as  before  ? 

But  to  my  story.  ‘ ‘ While  Ciudad  Eodrigo  still  held  out 
against  the  besieging  French,  its  battered  walls  and  breached 
ramparts  sadly  foretelling  the  fate  inevitably  impending,  we 
were  ordered,  together  wdth  the  Sixteenth  light  dragoons,  to  pro- 
ceed to  Gallegos,  to  reinforce  Crawford’s  division,  then  forming 
a corps  of  observation  upon  Massena’s  movements. 

“ The  position  he  occupied  was  a most  commanding  one — the 
crown  of  a long  mountain  ridge,  studded  with  pine,  corps,  and 
cork  trees;  presenting  every  facility  for  light  infantry  move- 
ments; and  here  and  there  gently  sloping  toward  the  plain, 
offering  a field  for  cavalry  maneuvers.  Beneath,  in  the  vast 
plain,  were  encamped  the  dark  legions  of  France,  their  heavy 
siege  artillery  planted  against  the  doomed  fortress,  while  clouds 
of  their  cavalry  caracoled  proudly  before  us,  as  if  in  taunting 
sarcasm  at  our  inactivity. 

“Ev^ery  artifice  which  his  natural  cunning  could  suggest, 
every  taunt  a Frenchman’s  vocabulary  contains,  had  been  used 
by  Massena  to  induce  Sir  Arthur  Wellesley  to  come  to  the  assist- 
ance of  the  beleaguered  fortress,  but  in  vain.  In  vain  he  ! re- 
laxed the  energy  of  the  siege,  and  affected  carelessness;  in  vain 
he  asserted  in  his  proclamations  that  the  English  were  either 
afraid,  or  else  traitors  to  their  allies.  The  mind  of  him  he  thus 
assailed  was  neither  accessible  to  menace  nor  to  sarcasm.  Pa- 
tiently abiding  his  time,  he  watched  the  progress  of  events  and 
provided  for  that  future  which  was  to  crown  bis  country’s  arms 
with  success,  and  himself  with  undying  glory. 

“Of  a far  different  mettle  was  the  General  formed,  under 
whose  orders  vve  were  now  placed.  Hot,  passionate,  and  impetu- 
ous, relying  upon  bold  and  headlong  heroism,  rather  than  upon 
cool  judgment  and  well-matured  plans,  Crawford  felt  in  war 


CHARLES  CM  ALLEY. 


S 


all  the  asperity  and  bitterness  of  a personal  conflict.  Ill  brook- 
ing the  insulting  tone  of  the  wily  Frenchman,  he  thirsted  for 
any  occasion  of  a battle;  and  his  proud  spirit  chafed  against 
the  colder  counsels  of  his  superior. 

“ On  the  very  morning  we  joined,  the  pickets  brought  in  the 
intelligence  that  the  French  patrols  were  nightly  in  the  habit  of 
visiting  the  villages  at  the  outposts,  and  committing  every  spe- 
cies of  cruel  indignity  upon  the  wretched  inhabitants.  Fired 
at  this  daring  insult,  our  General  resolved  to  cut  them  off,  and 
formed  two  ambuscades  for  the  purpose. 

“ Six  squadrons  of  the  Fourteenth  were  dispatched  to  Villa 
del  Puerco,  three  of  the  Sixteenth  to  Baguetto,  while  some  com- 
panies* of  the  Ninety-fifth,  and  the  cacadores,  supported  by  ar- 
tillery, were  ordered  to  hold  themselves  in  reserve,  for  the  ene- 
my were  in  force  at  no  great  distance  from  us. 

“ The  morning  was  just  breaking  as  an  aid-de-camp  galloped 
up  with  the  intelligence  that  the  French  had  been  seen  near  the 
Villa  del  Puerco,  a body  of  infantry  and  some  cavalry  having 
crossed  the  plain  and  disappeared  in  that  direction.  While  our 
Colonel  was  forming  us,  with  the  intention  of  getting  between 
them  and  their  main  body,  the  tramp  of  horses  was  heard  in 
the  wood  behind,  and  in  a few  moments  two  officers  rode  up. 
The  foremost,  who  was  a short  and  stoutly  built  man  of  about 
forty,  with  a bronzed  face,  and  eye  of  piercing  black,  shouted 
out  as  we  wheeled  into  column: 

“ ‘Halt  there!  why,  where  the  devil  are  you  going?  that’s 
your  ground.’  So  saying,  and  pointing  straight  toward  the  vil- 
lage with  his  hand,  he  would  not  listen  to  our  Colonel’s  expla- 
nation that  several  stone  fences  and  inclosures  would  interfere 
with  cavalry  movements,  but  added: 

“ ‘Forward,  I say;  proceed.’ 

“Unfortunately,  the  nature  of  the  ground  separated  our 
squadron,  as  the  Colonel  anticipated;  and,  although  we  came  on 
at  a topping  pace,  the  French  had  time  to  form  in  square  upon  a 
hill  to  await  us,  and  when  we  charged  they  stood  firmly,  and, 
firing  with  a low  and  steady  aim,  several  of  our  troopers  fell.  As 
we  wheeled  round  we  found  ourselves  exactly  in  front  of  their 
cavalry  coming  out  of  Baguilles;  so  dashing  straight  at  them,  * 
we  revenged  ourselves  for  our  first  repulse  by  capturing  twenty- 
nine  prisoners,  and  wounding  several  others. 

“The  French  infantry  were,  however,  still  unbroken,  and 
Colonel  Talbot  rode  boldly  up  with  five  squadrons  of  the  Four- 
teenth; but  the  charge,  pressed  home  with  all  its  gallantry, 
failed  also,  and  the  Colonel  fell  mortally  wounded  and  fourteen 
of  his  troopers  around  him.  Twice  we  rode  round  the  square 
seeking  for  a weak  point,  but  in  vain;  the  gallant  Frenchman 
who  commanded,  Captain  Guache,  stood  fearlessly  amid  his 
brave  followers,  and  we  could  hear  him  as  he  called  out  from 
time  to  time: 

“ ‘ Hst  ca,  mes  enfans!  hienfait,  mes  braves!^ 

“And  at  length  they  made  good  their  retreat,  while  we  re- 
turned to  the  camp,  leaving  thirty- two  troopers  and  our  brave 
Colonel  dead  upon  the  field  in  this  disastrous  affair,” 


4 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


The  repulse  we  had  met  with,  so  contrary  to  all  our  hopes  and 
expectations,  made  that  a most  gloomy  day  to  all  of  us.  *The 
brave  fellows  we  had  left  behind  us,  the  taunting  cheers  of  the 
French  infantry,  the  unbroken  ranks  against  which  we  rode 
time  after  time  in  vain,  never  left  our  minds;  and  a sense  of 
shame  of  what  might  be  thought  of  us  at  headquarters,  rendered 
the  reflection  still  more  painful. 

“ Our  bivouac,  notwithstanding  all  our  efforts,  was  a sad  one; 
and,  when  the  moon  rose,  some  drops  of  heavy  rain  falling  at  in- 
tervals in  the  still  unruffled  air,  threatened  a night  of  storm; 
gradually  the  sky  grew  darker  and  darker,  the  clouds  hung 
nearer  to  the  earth,  and  a dense  thick  mass  of  dark'mist  shrouded 
every  object;  the  heavy  cannonade  of  the  siege  was  stilled,  noth- 
ing betrayed  that  a vast  army  was  encamped  near  us,  their 
bivouac  fires  were  even  imperceptible,  and  the  only  sound  we 
heard  was  the  great  bell  of  Ciudad  Kodrigo  as  it  struck  the  hour, 
and  seemed  in  the  mournful  cadence  of  its  chimes  like  the  knell 
of  the  doomed  citadel. 

The  patrol  which  I commanded  had  to  visit  on  its  rounds  the 
most  advanced  post  of  our  position.  This  was  a small  farm- 
house, which,  standing  upon  a little  rising  ledge  of  ground,  was 
separated  from  the  French  lines  by  a little  stream  tributary  to 
the  Aguada;  a party  of  the  Fourteenth  were  picketed  here,  and 
beneath  them,  in  the  valley,  scarce  five  hundred  yards  distant, 
was  a detachment  of  cuirassiers  which  formed  the  French  out- 
post. As  we  walked  our  picket  the  deep  voice  of  the  sentry 
challenged  us,  and,  while  all  else  was  silent  as  the  grave,  we 
could  hear  from  the  opposite  side  the  merry  chorus  of  a French 
chansin — a voice  with  its  clattering  accompaniment  of  glasses, 
as  some  gay  companions  were-  making  merry  together. 

Within  the  little  hut  which  contained  our  fellows  the  scene 
was  a different  one;  the  three  officers  who  commanded  sat  mood- 
ily over  a wretched  fire  of  wet  wood,  a solitary  candle  dimly 
lighted  the  dismantled  room,  where  a table  but  ill  supplied  with 
cheer  stood  unminded  and  uncared  for. 

“Well,  O’Malley,”  cried  Baker,  as  I came  in,  “what  is  the 
knight  about,  and  what’fi  Crawford  for  next  ?” 

' “We  hear,”  cried  another,  “ that  he  means  to  give  battle  to- 
morrow, but  surely  Sir  Arthur’s  orders  are  positive  enough. 

^ Gordon  himself  told  me  that  he  was  forbid  to  fight  beyond  the 
Coa,  but  to  retreat  at  the  first  advance  of  the  enemy.” 

“ I am  afraid,”  replied  I,  “ that  retreating  is  his  last  thought 
just  now.  Ammunition  has  just  been  served  out,  and  I know 
the  horse  artillery  have  orders  to  be  in  readiness  by  daybreak.” 

“ All  right,”  said  Hampden,  with  a half  bitter  tone.  “ Noth- 
ing like  going  through  it.  If  he  is  to  be  brought  to  court-martial 
for  disobedience,  he’ll  take  good  care  we  shan’t  be  there  to  see 
it.” 

“ Why,  the  French  are  fifty  thousand  strong,”  said  Baker. 

“Look  there! — what  does  that  mean  pow?  That’s  a signal 
from  the  town.”  As  he  spoke  a rocket  of  great  brilliancy  shot 
up  into  the  sky,  and  bursting  at  length,  fell  in  millions  of  red^ 
lustrous  sparks  on  every  side,  showing  forth  the  tall  fortress  aiiA 


CHARLES  0^ MALLET. 


5 


the  encamped  army  round  it  with  all  the  clearness  of  noonday. 
It  was  a most  splendid  sight;  and,  though  the  next  moment  all 
was  dark  as  before,  w^e  gazed  still  fixedly  into  the  gloomy  dis- 
tance, straining  our  eyes  to  observe  what  was  hid  from  our  view 
forever. 

“That  must  be  a signal,”  repeated  Baker. 

“Begad!  if  Crawford  sees  it  he’ll  interpret  it  as  a reason  for 
fighting.  I trust  he’s  asleep  by  this  time,”  said  Hampden. 
“ By  the  bye,  O’Malley,  did  you  see  the  fellows  at  work  in  the 
trenches?  Ho^v  beautifully  clear  it  was  toward  the  south- 
ward!” 

“ Yes,  I remarked  that!  and  what  surprised  me  was  the  open- 
ness of  their  .position  in  that  direction.  Toward  the  San  Benito 
mole  I could  not  see  a man.” 

“Ah!  they’ll  not  attack  on  that  side — but  if  we  really  are ” 

“Stay,  Hampden,”  said  I,  interrupting;  “ a thought  had  just 
struck  me.  At  sunset  I saw  through  my  telescope  tli^  French 
engineers  marking  with  their  white  tape  the  line  of  a new  en- 
trenchment in  that  quarter.  Would  it  not  be  a glorious  thing 
to  move  the  tape,  and  bring  the  fellows  under  the  fire  of  San 
Benito  ?” 

“By  Jove,  O’Malley,  that  is  a thought  worth  a troop  to 
you!” 

“ Far  more  likely  to  forward  his  promotion  in  the  next  world 
than  in  this,”  said  Baker,  smiling. 

“ By  no  means,”  added  I;  “I  marked  the  ground  this  even- 
ing, and  have  it  perfectly  in  my  mind.  If  we  were  to  follow 
the  bend  of  the  river.  I’ll  be  bound  to  come  right  upon  the  spot; 
by  nearing  the  fortress,  well  escape  the  sentries;  and  all  this 
portion  is  open  to  us.” 

The  project  thus  loosely  thrown  out  was  now  discussed  in  all 
its  bearings.  Whatever  difficulties  it  presented  were  combated 
so  much  to  our  own  satisfaction  that  ’at  last  its  very  facility 
damped  our  ardor.  Meanwhile  the  night  wore  on,  and  the 
storm  of  rain  so  long  impending  .began  to  descend  in  very  tor- 
rents; hissing  along  the  parched  ground,  it  rose  in  a mist,  while 
overhead  the  heavy  thunder  rolled  in  long,  unbroken  peals,  the 
crazy  door  threatened  to  give  way  at  each  moment,  and  the 
whole  building  trembled  to  its  foundations. 

“Pass  the  brandy  down  here,  Hampden,  and  thank  your 
stars  you’re  where  you  are.  Eh,  O’Malley!  Youll  defer  your 
trip  to  San  Benito  for  finer  weather!” 

“Why,  in  good  earnest,”  said  Hampden,  “I’d  rather  begin 
my  engineering  at  a more  favorable  season:  but,  if  O’Malley’s 
for  it ” 

“ And  O’Malley  is  for  it,”  said  I,  suddenly. 

“ Then,  faith,  I’m  not  the  man  to  baulk  his  fancy;  and  as  Craw- 
ford is  so  beiit  upon  fighting  to-morrow,  it  don’t  make  much 
difference.  Is  it  a bargain  ?” 

“ It  is;  here’s  my  hand  on  it.” 

“ Come,  come,  bo^s;  I’ll  have  none  of  this;  we’ve  been  prettily 
cut  up  this  morning  already.  You  shall  not  go  upon  this  foolish 
excursion,” 


6 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 

‘‘  Confound  it,  old  fellow,  it’s  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk, 
with  the  majority  before  you  next  step;  but  here  we  are,  if 
peace  came  to>morrow,  scarcely  better  than  wUen  we  left  Eng- 
land. No,  no,  if  O’Malley’s  ready,  and  I see  he  is  so  before  me — 
what  have  you  got  there? 

“Oh!  I see;  that’s  our  tape  line;  capital  fun,  by  George;  the 
worst  of  it  is,  they’ll  make  us  Colonels  of  Engineers. 

“ Now,  then,  what’s  your  plan — on  foot,  or  mounted?” 

“Mounted,  and  for  this  reason:  the  country  is  all  open;  if  we 
are  to  have  a run  for  it,  our  thorough-breds  ought  to  distance 
them;  and,  as  we  must  expect  to  pass  some  of  their  sentries,  our 
only  chance  is  on  horse-back.” 

“ My  mind  is  relieved  of  a great  load,”  said  Hampden;  “ I was 
trembling  in  my  skin  lest  you  should  make  it  a walking  party. 
I’ll  do  anything  you  like  in  the  saddle,  from  robbing  the  mail  to 
cutting  out  a frigate;  but  I never  was  much  of  a footpad.” 

“ W^l,  Mike,”  said  I,  as  I returned  to  the  room  with  my  trusty 
follower,  ‘ ‘ are  the  cattle  to  be  depended  on  ?” 

“If  we  had  a snaffle  in  Malachi  Daly’s  mouth  (my  brown  horse) 
I’d  be  af eared  of  nothing,  sir;  but  if  it  comes  to  fencing  with  that 
cruel  bit — but,  sure,  you’ve  a light  hand,  and  let  him  have  his 
head  if  it’s  a wall.” 

“ By  Jove,  he  thinks  it  a fox-chase!”  said  Hampden. 

“ Isn’t  it  the  same,  sir?”  said  Mike,  with  a seriousness  that 
made  the  whole  party  smile. 

“Well,  I hope  we  shall  not  be  earthed,  anyway,”  said  I. 
“ Now,  the  next  thing  is,  who  has  a lantern? — ah!  the  very  thing, 
nothing  better.  Look  to  your  pistols,  Hampden;  and  Mike, 
here’s  a glass  of  grog  for  you;  we’ll  want  you.  And  now,  one 
bumper  for  good  luck.  Eh,  Baker,  won’t  you  pledge  us  ?” 

“And  spare  a little  for  me,”  said  Hampden.  “How  it  does 
rain.  If  one  didn’t  expect  to  be  water-proofed  before  morning, 
they  really  wouldn’t  go  out  such  weather.” 

While  I busied  myself  in  arranging  my  few  preparations, 
Hampden  proceeded  gravely  to  inform  Mike  that  we  were  going 
to  the  assistance  of  the  besieged  fortress,  which  could  not  possi- 
bly go  on  without  us. 

“Tare  and  ages,”  said  Mike;  “that’s  mighty  quare;  and  the 
blue  rocket  was  a letter  of  invitation,  I suppose?” 

“ Exactly,”  said  Hampden;  “ and  you  see  there  is  no  ceremony 
between  us.  We’ll  just  drop  in,  in  the  evening,  in  a friendly 
way.” 

“ Well,  then,  upon  my  conscience,  I’d  wait;  if  I were  you, 
till  the  family  wasn’t  in  confusion.  They  have  enough  on  their 
hands  just  now.” 

“ So  you’ll  not  be  persuaded,”  said  Baker.  “ Well,  I frankly 
tell  you,  that  come  what  will  of  it,  as  your  senior  officer.  I’ll  re- 
port you  to-morrow,  I’ll  not  risk  myself  for  any  such  hare-brain- 
ed expeditions.” 

“ A mighty  pleasant  lookout  for  me,”  said  Mike;  “ if  I'm  not 
shot  to-night,  still  I may  be  flogged  in  the  morning.” 

This  speech  once  more  threw  us  into  a hearty  fit  of  laughter, 


CHARLES  OMALLEY,  7 

amid  which  we  took  leave  of  our  friends  and  set  forth  upon  our 
way. 


CHAPTER  LXX. 

THE  LINES  OF  CIUDAD  RODKICO. 

The  small  twinkling  lights  which  shone  from  the  ramparts  of 
Ciudad  Rodrigo  were  our  only  guide  as  we  issued  forth  upon  our 
perilous  expedition.  The  storm  raged,  if  possible,  even  more 
violently  than  before;  and  gusts  of  wind  swept  along  the  ground 
with  the  force  of  a hurricane;  so  that,  at  first,  our  horses  could 
scarcely  face  the  tempest.  Our  path  lay  along  the  little  stream 
for  a considerable  way;  after  which,  fording  the  rivulet,  we 
entered  upon  the  open  plain;  taking  care  to  avoid  the  French 
outpost  in  the  extreme  left,  which  was  marked  by  a bivouac 
fire,  burning  under  the  heavy  down-pour  of  rain,  and  Poking 
large  through  the  dim  atmosphere  around  it. 

I rode  foremost,  followed  closely  by  Hampden  and  Mike;  not 
a word  was  spoken  after  we  crossed  the  stream.  Our  plan  was, 
if  challenged  by  a patrol,  to  reply  in  French,  and  press  on;  so 
small  a party  could  never  suggest  the  idea  of  attack;  and  we 
hoped  in  this  manner  to  escape. 

The  violence  of  the  storm  was  such  that  many  of  our  precau- 
tions as  to  silence  were  quite  unnecessary;  and  we  had  advanced 
to  a considerable  extent  into  the  plain  before  any  appearance  of 
the  encampment  struck  us.  At  length,  on  mounting  a little 
rising  ground,  we  perceived  several  fires  stretching  far  away  to 
the  northward;  while  still  to  our  left  there  blazed  one  larger 
and  brighter  than  the  others.  We  now  found  that  we  bad  not 
outflanked  their  position  as  we  intended,  and,  learning,  from 
the  situation  of  the  fires,  that  we  were  still  only  at  the  outposts, 
we  pressed  sharply  forward,  directing  our  course  by  the  twin 
stars  that  shone  from  the  fortress. 

“ How  heavy  the  ground  is  here!”  whispered  Hampden,  as  our 
horses  sunk  above  the  fetlocks;  “ we  had  better  stretch  away 
to  the  right — the  rise  of  the  hill  will  favor  us.” 

“Hark!”  said  I;  “did  you  not  hear  something  ? pull  up;  si- 
lence now;  yes;  there  they  come.  It’s  a patrol;  I hear  their 
tramp.”  Asl  spoke,  the  measured  tread  of  infantry  was  heard 
above  the  storm,  and  soon  after  a lantern  was  seen  coming  along 
the  causeway  near  us.  The  column  passed  within  a few  yards 
of  where  we  stood.  I could  even  recognize  the  black  covering 
of  the  shakos  as  the  light  fell  on  them.  “ Let  us  follow  them,” 
whispered  I,  and  the  next  moment  we  fell  in  upon  their  track 
holding  our  cattle  well  in  hand,  and  ready  to  start  at  a mo- 
ment. 

“ Qui  est  la  V a sentry  demanded. 

“ Xa  deuxieme  division, cried  a hoarse  voice. 

“ Halte  la!  le  consigned’' 

“ WagramP^  repeated  the  same  voice  as  before,  while  his  party 
resumed  their  march;  and  the  next  moment  the  patrol  was 
again  upon  his  post,  silent  and  motionless  as  before. 

“ En  avant,  MessieursP^  said  I,  aloud,  as  soon  as  the  infantry 


8 


CHARLEIS  O^AlALLEr. 


had  proceeded  some  distance;  en  avant — Qui  est  laf'  de- 
manded the  sentry,  as  we  came  along  at  a sharp  trot. 

“ Uetat-inajor,  Wagram,''  responded  I,  pressing  on  without 
drawing  rein;  and  in  a moment  we  had  regained  our  former  po- 
sition behind  the  infantry.  We  had  scarcely  time  to  congratu- 
late ourselves  upon  the  success  of  our  scheme,  when  a tremen- 
dous clattering  noise  in  front,  mingled  with  the  galloping  of 
horses  and  the  cracking  of  whips,  announced  the  approach  of 
the  artillery  as  they  came  along  by  a narrow  road  which  bi- 
sected our  path;  and  as  they  passed  between  us  and  the  column, 
we  could  hear  the  muttered  sentences  of  tlie  drivers,  cursing  the 
unseasonable  time  for  an  attack,  and  swearing  at  their  cattle  in 
no  measured  tones. 

‘'Did  you  hear  that ?’ whispered  Hampden;  “the  battery  is 
about  to  be  directed  against  the  San  Benito,  which  must  be  far 
away  to  the  left.  I heard  one  of  the  troop  saying  that  they 
were  to  open  their  fii’e  at  daybreak.” 

“ All  right  now,”  said  I,  “ look  there.” 

From  the  hill  we  now  stood  upon,  a range  of  lanterns  was 
distinctly  visible,  stretching  away  for  nearly  half  a mile. 

“ There  are  the  trenches;  they  must  be  at  work,  too;  see  how 
the  lights  are  moving  from  place  to  place!  Straight  now;  for- 
ward!” 

So  saying,  I pressed  my  horse  boldly  on. 

We  had  not  proceeded  many  minutes,  when  the  sounds  of 
galloping  were  heard  coming  along  behind  us. 

“ To  the  right,  in  the  hollow,”  cried  I;  “be  still.” 

Scjrcely  had  we  moved  off,  when  several  horsemen  galloped 
up,  and,  drawing  their  reins  to  breathe  their  horses  up  the  hill, 
we  could  hear  their  voices  as  they  conversed  together. 

In  the  few  broken  words  we  could  catch,  we  guessed  that  the 
attack  upon  San  Benito  was  only  a feint  to  induce  Crawford  to 
hold  his  position,  while  the  French,  marching  upon  his  flank 
and  front,  were  to  attack  him  with  overwhelming  masses,  and 
crush  him. 

“ You  hear  what’s  in  store  for  us,  O’Malley,”  whispered  Hamp- 
den. “ I think  we  could  not  possibly  do  better  than  hasten  back 
with  the  intelligence.” 

“ We  must  not  forget  what  we  came  for,  first,”  said  I;  and  the 
next  moment  we  were  following  the  horsemen,  who,  from  their 
helmets,  seemed  horse  artillery  officers. 

The  pace  our  guides  rode  at  showed  us  that  they  knew 
their  ground.  We  passed  several  sentries  muttering  something 
at  each  time,  and  seeming  as  if  only  anxious  to  keep  up  with 
our  party. 

“They’ve  halted,”  said  I.  “Now  to  the  left  there;  gently 
here,  for  we  must  be  in  the  midst  of  their  lines.  Ha!  I knew 
we  were  right;  see-  there.” 

Before  us,  now,  at  a few  hundred  yards,  we  could  perceive  a 
number  of  men  engaged  upon  the  field.  Lights  were  moving 
from  place  to  place  rapidly,  while  immediately  in  front  a strong 
picket  of  cavalry  were  halted. 


CHARLES  aUALLEY. 


9 


‘‘  By  Jove,  there’s  sharp  work  to-night,”  whispered  Hampden; 
“ tiiey  do  intend  to  surprise  us  to-morrow.” 

“Gently  now,  to  the  left,”  said  I;  as,  cautiously  skirting  the 
little  hill,  I kept  my  eye  firmly  fixed  upon  the  watch-fire. 

The  storm,  which  for  some  time  had  abated  considerably,  was 
now  nearly  quelled,  and  the  moon  again  peeped  forth  amid 
masses  of  black  and  watery  clouds. 

“ What  good  fortune  for  us!”  thought  I,  at  this  moment,  as  I 
surveyed  the  plain  before  me. 

“ I say,  O’Malley,  what  are  those  fellows  at  yonder,  where  the 
blue  light  is  burning  ?” 

“Ah!  the  very  people  we  want;  these  are  the  sappers.  Now 
for  it!  that’s  our  ground;  we’ll  soon  come  upon  their  track 
now.” 

We  pressed  rapidly  forward,  passing  an  infantry  party  as  we 
went.  The  blue  light  was  scarcely  a hundred  yards  off;  vre 
could  even  hear  the  shouting  of  the  officers  to  their  men  in  their 
trenches,  when  suddenly  my  horse  came  down  upon  his  head, 
and,  rolling  over,  crushed  me  to  the  earth. 

“Not  hurt,  my  boy,”  cried  I in  a subdued  tone,  as  Hampden 
jumped  down  beside  me. 

It  was  the  angle  of  a trench  I had  fallen  into:  and  though  both 
my  horse  and  myself  felt  stunned  for  the  moment,  we  rallied 
the  next  minute. 

“Here  is  the  very  spot,”  said  I.  “Now,  Mike,  catch  the  bri- 
dles and  follow  us  closely.” 

Guiding  ourselves  along  the  edge  of  the  trench,  we  crept 
stealthily  forward.  The  only  watch-fire  near  was  where  the 
engineer  party  was  halted,  and  our  object  was  to  get  outside  of 
this. 

“ My  turn  this  time,”  said  Hampden,  as  he  tripped  suddenly, 
and  fell  head  foremost  upon  the  grass. 

As  I assisted  him  to  rise,  something  caught  upon  my  ankle, 
and,  on  stooping,  I found  it  was  a cord  pegged  fast  into  the 
ground,  and  lying  only  a few  inches  above  it. 

“Now  steady!  see  here;  this  is  their  working  line;  pass  your 
hand  along  it  there,  and  let  us  follow  it  out.” 

While  Hampden  accordingly  crept  along  on  one  side,  I 
tracked  the  cord  upon  the  other;  here  I found  it  terminating 
upon  a small  mound,  where  probably  some  battery  was  to  be 
erected.  I accordingly  gathered  it  carefully  up,  and  was  re- 
turning toward  my  friend,  when  what  was  my  horror  to  hear 
Mike’s  voice  conversing,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  with  some  one  in 
French. 

I stood  fixed  to  the  spot,  my  very  heart  beating  almost  in  my 
mouth  as  I listened. 

“ Qui  etes  vous  done,  mon  ami  f'‘  inquired  a hoarse,  deep  voice 
a few  yards  off.  , 

“ Bon  cheval,  hon  beast,  saere  nom  de  Dieu  r A hearty  burst 
of  laughter  prevented  me  hearing  the  conclusion  of  Mike’s 
French. 

I now  crept  forward  on  my  hands  and  knees  till  I could  catch 
the  dark  outline  of  the  horses,  one  hand  fixed  upon  my  pistol 


10 


CHARLES  a M ALLEY. 


trigger,  and  my  sword  drawn  in  the  other.  Meanwhile,  the 
dialogue  continued. 

“ Vans  etes  dWlsace  ripest  ce  pan  asked  the  Frenchman, 
kindly  supposing  that  Mike’s  French  savored  of  Strasburg. 

‘‘Oh,  blessed  Virgin!  av’  I might  shoot  him,”  was  the  mut- 
tered reply. 

Before  I had  time  to  see  the  effect  of  the  last  speech,  I pressed 
forward  with  a bold  spring,  and  felled  the  Frenchman  to  the 
earth;  my  hand  had  scarcely  pressed  his  mouth,  when  Hamp- 
den was  beside  me.  Snatching  up  the  pistol  I let  fall,  he  held 
it  to  the  man’s  chest,  and  commanded  him  to  be  silent.  To 
unfasten  his  gridle,  and  bind  the  Frenchman’s  hands  behind 
him  was  the  work  of  a moment;  and  as  the  sharp  click  of  the 
pistol-cock  seemed  to  calm  his  efforts  to  escape,  we  soon  suc- 
ceeded in  fastening  a handkerchief  tight  across  his-  mouth,  and, 
the  next  minute,  he  was  placed  behind  Mike’s  saddle,  firmly  at- 
tached to  that  (vorthy  individual  by  his  sword  belt.  | 

“ Now,  a clear  run  home  for  it  and  a fair  start,”  said  Hampden, 
as  he  sprang  into  the  saddle. 

“Now  then  for  it,”  I replied,  as,  turning  my  horse's  head  to- 
ward our  lines,  I dashed  madly  forward. 

The  moon  was  again  obscured,  but  still  the  dark  outline  of  the 
hill  which  formed  our  encampment  was  discernible  on  the  hori- 
zon. Riding  side  by  side,  on  we  hurried;  now  splashing  through 
the  deep  and  wet  marshes,  now  plunging  through  small  streams. 
Our  horses  were  high  in  mettle,  and  we  spared  them  not;  by 
making  a wide  detour  we  had  outflai  k ^d  the  I re.xh  pickets,  and 
were  almost  out  of  all  risk,  when  suddenly,  on  coming  to  the 
verge  of  a rather  steep  hill,  we  perceived  beneath  us  a strong 
cavalry  picket  standing  around  a watch-fire;  their  horses  were 
ready  saddled,  the  men  accoutered,  and  quite  prepared  for  the 
field.  While  we  conversed  together  in  whispers  as  to  the  course 
to  follow,  our  deliberations  were  very  rapidly  cut  short.  The 
French  prisoner,  who  hitherto  had  given  neither  trouble  nor  re- 
sistance, had  managed  to  free  his  mouth  from  the  encumbrance 
of  the  handkerchief;  and,  as  we  stood  quietly  discussing  our 
plans,  with  one  tremendous  effort  he  endeavored  to  hurl  him- 
self and  Mike  from  the  saddle;  shouting  out  as  he  did  so: 

“ A moi  camarades;  sauvez  moi  r 

Hampden’s  pistol  leaped  from  the  holster  as  he  spoke,  and, 
leveling  it  with  a deadly  aim,  he  pulled  the  trigger,  but  I 
threw  up  his  arm,  and  the  ball  passed  high  above  his  head. 
To  have  killed  the  Frenchman  would  have  been  to  lose  my 
faithful  follower,  who  struggled  manfully  with  his  adversary, 
and,  at  length,  by  throwing  himself  flatly  forward  upon  the 
mane  of  his  horse,  completely  disabled  him.  Meanwhile,  the 
picket  had  sprung  to  their  saddles,  and  looked  wildly  about 
on  every  side. 

Not  a moment  was  to  be  lost;  so,  turning  our  horses’  heads 
toward  the  plain,  away  we  went.  One  loud  cheer  announced 
to  us  that  we  had  been  seen,  and  the  next  instant  the  clash 
of  Ihe  pursuing  cavalry  was  heard  behind  us.  It  was  now 
entirely  a question  of  speed,  and  little  need  we  have  feared, 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


11 


had  Mike’s  horse  not  been  doubly  weighted.  However,  as  we 
ctill  had  considerably  the  start,  and  the  gray  dawn  of  day  en- 
abled us  to  see  the  ground,  the  odds  were  in  our  favor.  ‘‘  Never 
let  your  horse’s  head  go,”  was  my  often  repeated  direction  to 
Mike,  as  he  spurred  with  all  the  desperation  of  madness.  Al- 
ready the  low  meadow  land  was  in  sight  which  flanked  the 
stream  we  had  crossed  in  the  morning;  but,  unfortunately, 
the  heavy  rains  had  swollen  it  now  to  a considerable  depth, 
and  the  muddy  current,  choked  with  branches  of  trees  and 
great  stones,  was  hurrying  down  like  a torrent.  “ Take  the 
river;  never  flinch  it,”  was  my  cry  to  my  companions,  as  I 
turned  my  head  and  saw  a French  dragoon,  followed  by  two 
others  gaining  rapidly  upon  us.  As  I spoke,  Mike  dashed  in, 
followed  by  Hampden,  and  the  same  moment  the  sharp  ring  of  a 
carbine  whizzed  past  me.  To  take  off  the  pursuit  from  the 
others,  I now  wheeled  my  horse  suddenly  round,  as  if  I feared 
to  take  the  strean,  and  dashed  along  by  the  river's  bank. 

Beneath  me,  in  the  foaming  current,  the  two  horsemen  labored; 
now  stemming  the  rush  of  water,  now  reeling  almost  beneath. 
A sharp  cry  burst  from  Mike  as  I looked;  and  I saw  the  poor 
fellow  bend  nearly  to  his  saddle.  I could  see  no  more,  for  the 
chase  was  now  hot  upon  myself;  behind  me  rode  a French  dra- 
goon, his  carbine  pressed  tightly  to  his  side,  ready  to  Are  as  he 
pressed  on  in  pursuit.  I had  but  one  chance;  so,  drawing  my 
pistol,  I wheeled  suddenly  on  my  saddle,  and  fired  straight  at 
him.  The  Frenchman  fell,  while  a regular  volley  from  his  party 
rung  around  me,  one  ball  striking  my  horse,  and  another  lodging 
in  the  pommel  of  my  saddle.  The  noble  animal  reeled  nearly  to 
the  earth,  but,  as  if  rallying  for  a last  effort,  sprang  forward 
with  renewed  energy,  and  plunged  boldly  into  the  river. 

For  a moment,  so  sudden  was  my  leap,  my  pursuers  lost  sight 
of  me;  but  the  bank  being  somewhat  steep,  the  efforts  of  my 
horse  to  climb  again  discovered  me,  and  before  I reached  the 
field  two  pistol  balls  took  effect  upon  me;  one  slightly  grazed 
my  side,  but  my  bridle  arm  was  broken  by  the  other,  and  my 
hand  fell  motionless  to  my  side.  A cheer  of  defiance  was,  how- 
ever, my  reply,  as  I turned  round  in  my  saddle,  and  the  next 
moment  I was  far  beyond  the  range  of  their  fire. 

Not  a man  durst  follow,  and  the  last  sight  I had  of  them  was 
the  dismounted  group  who  stood  around  their  dead  comrade; 
before  me  rode  Hampden  and  Mike,  still  at  top  speed,  and  never 
turning  their  heads  backward.  I hastened  after  them;  but  my 
poor  wounded  horse,  nearly  ham-strung  by  the  shot,  became 
dead  lame;  and  it  was  past  daybreak  ere  I reached  the  first  out- 
posts of  our  lines. 


CHAPTER  LXXI. 

THE  DOCTOR. 

And  his  wound  ? Is  it  a serious  one  ?”  said  a round  full  voice, 
as  the  Doctor  h‘ft  my  room,  at  the  conclusion  of  his  visit. 

‘‘  No,  sir;  fractured  bone  is  the  worst  of  it:  the  bullet  grazed, 
but  did  not  cut  the  artery;  and  as— — •” 


12 


CHARLES  OAIALLEY. 


**  Well,  how  soon  will  he  be  about  again  ?” 

“ In  a few  weeks,  if  no  fever  sets  it.” 

“There  is  no  objection  to  my  seeing  him? — a few  minutes 
only — I shall  be  cautious.”  So  saying,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
without  waiting  for  a reply,  the  door  was  opened  by  an  aid-de- 
camp, who,  announcing  General  Crawford,  closed  it  again  and 
withdrew. 

The  first  glance  I threw  upon  the  General  enabled  me  to  recog- 
nize the  officer  who  on  the  previous  morning  had  rode  up  to  the 
picket  and  given  us  the  orders  to  charge.  I essayed  to  rise  a 
little  as  he  came  forward,  but  he  motioned  me  with  his  hand  to 
lie  still,  while,  placing  a chair  close  beside  my  bed,  he  sat 
down. 

“Very  sorry  for  your  mishap,  sir,  hut  glad  it  is  no  worse. 
Morton  says  that  nothing  of  consequence  is  injured;  there,  you 
mustn’t  speak  except  I ask  you.  Hampen  has  told  me  every- 
thing necessary;  at  least,  as  far  as  he  knew.  Is  it  your  opinion, 
also,  that  any  movement  is  in  contemplation?  and  from  what 
circumstance  ?” 

I immediately  explained,  and  as  briefly  as  I was  able,  the 
reasons  for  suspecting  such,  with  which  he  seemed  quite  satis- 
fied. I detailed  the  various  changes  in  the  positions  of  the 
troops,  that  were  taking  place  during  the  night,  the  march  of 
the  artillery,  and  the  strong  bodies  of  cavalry  that  were  posted 
in  reserve  along  the  river. 

“Very  well,  sir;  they’ll  not  move;  your  prisoner,  sir.  Quar- 
ter-master of  an  infantry  battalion,  says  not,  also.  Yours  was 
a bold  stroke,  but  could  not  possibly  have  been  of  service,  and 
the  best  thing  I can  do  for  you  is  not  to  mention  it;  a court- 
martial  is  but  a poor  recompense  for  a gun-shot  wound.  Mean- 
while, when  this  blow^s  over.  I’ll  appoint  you  on  my  personal 
staff.  There,  not  a word,  I beg;  and  now,  good-bye.” 

So  saying,  and  waving  me  an  adieu  wdth  his  hand,  the  gal- 
lant veteran  withdrew  before  I could  express  my  gratitude  for 
his  kindness. 

I had  little  time  for  reflecting  over  my  past  adventure,  such 
numbers  of  my  brother  officers  poured  in  upon  me.  All  the  Doc- 
tor’s cautions  respecting  quietness  and  rest  were  disregarded, 
and  a perfect  levee  sat  the  entire  morning  in  my  bedroom.  I 
was  delighted  to  learn  that  Mike’s  wound,  though  painful  at 
the  moment,  was  of  no  consequence,  and,  indeed,  Hampden, 
who  escaped  both  steel  and  shot,  was  the  worst  off  among  us;  ^ 
his  plunge  in  the  river  having  brought  on  an  ague  he  had  labored  < 
under  years  before.  1 

“The  illustrious  Maurice  has  been  twice  here  this  morning,  ^ 

but  they  wouldn’t  admit  him.  Your  Scotch  physician  is  afraid  ^ 

of  his  Irish  confrere,  and  they  had  a rare  set-to  about  Galen  and  ; 
Hippocrates,  outside,”  said  Baker. 

“ By  the  bye,”  said  another,  “did  you  see  how  Sparks  looked  \ 

when'Quill  joined  us?  Egad,  I never  saw  a fellow  in  such  a X 

fright;  he  reddened  up,  then  grew  pale,  turned  his  back,  and  i 
slunk  away  at  the  very  first  momer.t.”  3 


CBARLES  0\MALLEY; 


15 


“ Yes,  I remember  it.  We  must  find  out  the  reason;  for  Maur- 
i?5e,  depend  upon  it,  has  been  hoaxing  the  poor  fellow.” 

“Well,  O’Malley,”  growled  out  the  senior  Major,  “you  cer- 
tainly did  give  Hampden  a benefit.  He’d  not  trust  himself  in 
such  company  again,  and,  begad,  he  says,  the  man  is  as  bad  as 
the  master.  That  fellow  of  yours  never  let  go  his  prisoner  till 
he  reached  the  Quartermaster-Oeneral,  and  they  were  both  bathed 
in  blood  at  that  time.” 

“ Poor  Mike,  we  must  do  something  for  him.” 

“Oh!  he’s  as  happy  as  a king.  Maurice  has  been  in  to  see 
him,  and  they’ve  had  a long  chat  about  Ireland,  and  all  the 
national  pastimes  of  whisky  drinking  and  smashing  skulls;  my 
very  temples  ache  at  the  recollection.” 

“Is  Mr.  O’Mealey  at  home?”  said  a very  rich  Cork  accent,  as 
the  well-known  and  most  droll  features  of  Dr.  Maurice  Quill 
appeared  at  the  door. 

“ Come  in,  Maurice,”  said  the  Major;  “ and  for  Heaven’s  sake 
behave  properly.  The  poor  fellow  must  not  have  a row  about 
his  bedside.” 

“ A row,  a row!  Upon  my  conscience,  it  is  little  you  know 
about  a row,  and  there’s  worse  things  going  tlian  a row. 

“ Which  leg  is  it  ?” 

“ It’s  an  arm,  Doctor,  I’m  happy  to  say.” 

“Not  your  punch  hand,  I hope.  No;  all’s  right.  A neat 
fellow  you  have  for  a servant,  that  Mickey  Free.  I was  asking 
him  about  a townsman  of  his  own — one  Tim  Delany — the  very 
cut  of  himself,  the  best  servant  I ever  had.  I never  could  make 
out  what  became  of  him.  Old  Hobson,  of  the  Ninety- fifth,  gave 
him  to  me,  saying;  ‘There,  he’s  for  you,  Maurice,  and  a bigger 
thief  and  a greater  blackguard  there’s  not  in  the  Sixtieth.’ 

“ ‘ Strong  words,’  said  I. 

“ ‘And  true,’  said  he,  ‘ he’d  steal  your  molar  tooth  while  you 
were  laughing  at  him.’ 

“ ‘ Let  me  have  him,  and  try  my  hand  on  him  any  way.  I’ve 
got  no  one  just  now.  Anything  is  better  than  nothing.’ 

“ Well,  I took  Tim,  and  sending  for  him  to  my  room,  I locked 
the  door,  and  sitting  down  gravely  before  him,  explained,  in  a 
few  words,  that  I was  quite  aware  of  his  little  propensities. 

“ ‘ Now,’  said  I,  ‘ if  you  like  to  behave  well.  I’ll  think  you  as 
honest  as  the  Chief  Justice;  but,  if  I catch  you  stealing,  if  it  be 
only  the  value  of  a brass  snuff-box,  I’ll  have  you  flogged  before 
the  regiment,  as  sure  as  my  name’s  Maurice.’ 

“ Oh!  I wish  you  heard  the  volley  of  protestations  that  fell 
from  him,  fast  as  hail.  He  was  a calumniated  man;  the  world 
conspired  to  wrong  him;  he  was  never  a thief  nor  a rogue  in  his 
life;  he  had  a weakness,  he  confessed,  for  the  ladies,  but,  except 
that,  he  hoped  he  might  die  so  thin  that  he  could  shave  himself 
with  his  shin-bone  if  he  ever  so  much  as  took  a pinch  of  salt 
that  wasn’t  his  own. 

“However  this  might  be,  nothing  could  be  better  than  the 
way  Tim  and  I got  on  together.  Everything  was  in  its  place,  noth* 
ing  missing — and  in  fact  for  upward  of  a year  I went  on  won 


14 


CHABLKS  OAIALLKT. 


dering  when  lie  was  to  show  ont  his  true  colors,  for  hitherto  he 
had  been  a phoenix. 

“At  last — we  were  quartered  in  Limerick  at  the  time — every 
morning  used  to  bring  accounts  of  all  manner  of  petty  thefts  in 
the  barrack;  one  fellow  had  lost  his  belt,  another  his  shoes,  and 
the  third  had  three-and-sixpence  in  his  pocket  when  he  went  to 
bed,  and  woke  without  a farthing,  and  so  on;  everybody,  save 
myself,  was  mulcted  of  something.  At  lengtli  some  rumors  of 
Tim’s  former  propensities  got  abroad;  suspicion  was  excited.  My 
friend  Delany  was  rigidly  watched,  and  some  very  dubious  cir- 
cumstances attached  to  the  way  he  spent  his  evenings. 

“My  brother  officers  called  upon  me  about  the  matter,  and 
although  nothing  had  transpired  like  proof,  I sent  for  Tim,  and 
opened  my  mind  on  the  subject. 

“You  may  talk  of  the  look  of  conscious  innocence,  but  I defy 
you  to  conceive  anything  finer  than  the  stare  of  offended  honor 
Tim  gave  me  as  I began. 

“ ‘ They  say  it’s  me.  Doctor,’  said  he,  ‘ do  they  ? And  you — you 
believe  them.  You  allow  them  to  revile  me  that  way?  Well, 
well,  the  world  is  come  to  a pretty  pass  anyhow.  Now,  let  me 
ask  your  honor  a few  questions:’ 

“ ‘ How  many  shirts  had  yourself  when  I entered  your  serv- 
ice? two;  and  one  was  more  like  a fishing  net.  And  how  many 
have  ye  now?  eighteen;  ay,  eighteen  bran  new  cambric  ones; 
devil  a hole  in  one  of  them!  How  many  pair  of  stockings  had 
you  ? three  and  an  odd  one;  you  have  two  dozen  this  minute. 
How  many  pocket-handkerchiefs?  one;  devil  a more!  You 
could  only  blow  your  nose  two  days  in  the  week,  and  now  you 
may  every  hour  of  the  twenty-four! — and  as  to  the  trifling 
articles  of  small  value,  snuff-boxes,  gloves,  boot-jacks,  night- 
caps, and ’ 

“ ‘ Stop,  Tim,  that’s  enough ’ 

“ ‘ No,  sir;  it  is  not,’  said  Tim,  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full 
height;  ‘ you  have  wounded  my  feelings  in  a way  I can’t  for- 
get; it  is  impossible  we  can  have  that  mutual  respect  our 
position  demands;  farewell,  farewell.  Doctor,  and  forever!’ 

“ Before  I could  say  another  word,  the  fellow  had  left  the 
room,  and  closed  the  door  after  him;  and  from  that  hour  to 
this  I never  set  eyes  on  him.” 

In  this  vein  did  the  worthy  Doctor  run  on,  till  some  more 
discreet  friend  suggested  that,  however  well  intentioned  the 
visit,  I did  not  seem  to  be  equal  to  it.  My  flushed  cheek  and 
anxious  eye  betraying  that  the  fever  of  my  wound  had  com- 
menced, they  left  me,  therefore,  once  more  alone,  and  to  my 
solitary  musings  over  the  vicissitudes  of  my  fortune. 


CHAPTER  LXXH. 


THE  COA. 


Within  a week  from  the  occurrence  of  the  events  just  men- 
tioned, Ciudad  Rodrigo  surrendered,  and  Crawford  assumed 
another  position  beneath  the  walls  of  Almeida;  the  Spanish 
contingent  having  left  us,  we  were  reinforced  by  the  arrival  of 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


15 


\ cvo  battalions — renewed  orders  being  sent  not  to  risk  a battle; 
Lut  if  the  French  should  advance,  to  retire  beyond  the  Coa. 

On  the  evening  of  the  21st  July,  a strong  body  of  French  cav- 
alry advanced  into  the  plain,  supported  by  some  heavy  guns; 
upon  which  Crawford  retired  upon  the  Coa,  intending,  as  we 
supposed,  to  place  that  river  between  himself  and  the  enemy. 
Three  days,  however,  passed  over  without  any  movement  upon 
either  side,  and  we  still  continued  with  a force  of  scarcely  four 
i^housand  infantry  and  a thousand  dragoons,  to  stand  opposite 
^o  an  army  of  nearly  fifty  thousand  men;  such  was  our  position 
as  the  night  of  the  24th  set  in.  I was  sitting  alone  in  my  quar- 
ters; Mike,  whose  wound  had  been  severer  than  at  first  was  sup- 
])Osed,  had  been  sent  to  Almeida,  and  was  musing  in  solitude 
upon  the  events  of  the  campaign,  when  the  noise  and  bustle 
without  excited  my  attention;  the  roll  of  artillery  wagons,  the 
clash  of  musketry,  and  the  distant  sounds  of  marching,  all 
proved  that  the  troops  were  effecting  some  new  movement,  and 
I burned  with  anxiety  to  learn  what  it  was.  My  brother  offi- 
cers, however,  came  not  as  usual  to  my  quarters;  and,  although 
I waited  with  impatience  while  the  hours  rolled  by,  no  one 
appeared. 

Long,  low  moaning  gusts  of  wind  swept  along  the  earth, 
carrying  the  leaves  as  they  tore  them  from  the  trees,  and  ming- 
ling their  sad  sounds  with  the  noises  of  the  retiring  troops — for 
I could  perceive  that  gradually  the  sounds  grew  more  and 
more  remote,  and  only  now  and  then  could  I trace  their  posi- 
tion as  the  roll  of  a distant  drum  swelled  upon  the  breeze,  or 
the  more  shrill  cry  of  a pibroch  broke  upon  my  ear;  a heavy 
down  pour  of  rain  followed  soon  after,  and  in  its  unceasing 
plash  drowned  all  other  sounds. 

As  the  little  building  shook  beneath  the  peels  of  loud  thunder, 
the  lightning  flashed  in  broad  sheets  upon  the  rapid  river,  which, 
swollen  and  foaming,  dashed  impetuously  beside  my  window. 
By  the  uncertain  but  vivid  glare  of  the  flashes,  I endeavored  to 
ascertain  where  our  force  was  posted ; but  in  vain.  Never  did 
I witness  such  a night  of  storms;  the  deep  booming  of  the  thun- 
der seeming  never  for  a moment  to  cease,  while  the  rush  of  the 
torrent  grew  gradually  louder,  till  at  length  it  swelled  into  one 
deep  and  sullen  roar  like  that  of  distant  artillery. 

Wea.k  and  nervous  as  I felt  from  the  effects  of  my  wound, 
feverish  and  exhausted  by  days  of  suffering  and  sleepless  nights, 
1 paced  my  little  room  with  tottering,  but  impatient  steps. 
The  sense  of  my  sad  and  imprisoned  state  impressed  me  deeply; 
and  while,  from  time  to  time,  I replenished  my  fire,  and  hoped 
to  hear  some  friendly  step  upon  the  stair,  my  heart  grew  grad- 
ually heavier,  and  every  gloomy  and  depressing  thought  sug- 
gested itself  to  my  imagination.  My  most  constant  impression 
was,  that  the  troops  were  retiring  beyond  the  Coa,  and  that, 
forgotten  in  the  haste  and  confusion  of  a night’s  march,  I had 
been  left  behind  to  fall  a prisoner  to  the  enemy. 

The  sounds  of  the  troops  retiring  gradually  further  and  further 
favored  the  idea,  in  which  I was  still  more  strengthened  on  find- 
ing that  the  peasants  who  inhabited  the  little  hut  had  departed, 


16 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


leaving  me  utterly  alone.  From  the  moment  I ascertained  this 
fact  my  impatience  knew  no  bounds,  and,  in  proportion  as  I be- 
gan to  feel  some  exertion  necessary  on  my  part,  so  much  more 
did  my  nervousness  increase  my  debility,  that  at  last  I sank  ex- 
hausted upon  my  bed,  while  a cold  perspiration  broke  out  upon 
my  temples. 

I have  mentioned  that  the  Coa  was  immediately  beneath  the 
house;  I must  also  add,  that  the  little  building  occupied  the 
angle  of  a steep  but  narrow  gorge,  whi'^h  descended  from  the 
plain  to  the  bridge  across  the  stream.  This,  as  far  as  I knew, 
was  the  only  means  we  possessed  of  passing  the  river,  so  that, 
when  the  last  retiring  sounds  of  the  troops  were  heard  by  me,  1 
began  to  suspect  that  Crawford,  in  compliance  with  his  orders, 
was  making  a backward  movement,  on  leaving  the  bridge  open 
to  the  French,  to  draw  them  to  his  line  of  march,  while  he 
should  cross  over  at  some  more  distant  point. 

As  the  night  grew  later,  the  storm  seemed  to  increase;  the 
waves  of  the  foaming  river  dashed  against  the  frail  walls  of  the 
hut,  while  its  roof,  rent  by  the  blast,  fell  in  fragments  upon  the 
stream,  and  all  threatened  a speedy  and  perfect  ruin. 

How  I longed  for  morning!  The  doubt  and  uncertainty  I 
suffered  nearly  drove  me  distracted.  Of  all  the  causalties  my 
career  as  a soldier  opened,  none  had  such  terrors  for  me  as  im- 
prisonment; the  very  thought  of  the  long  years  of  inaction  and 
inglorious  idleness  was  worse  than  any  death.  My  wounds  and 
the  state  of  fever  I was  in  increased  the  morbid  dread  upon  me, 
and  had  the  French  captured  me  at  the  time  I know  not  that 
madness  of  which  I was  not  capable.  Day  broke  at  last,  but 
slowly  and  sullenly;  the  gray  clouds  hurried  past  upon  the 
storm,  pouring  down  the  rain  in  torrents  as  they  went,  and  the 
desolation  and  dreariness  on  all  sides  was  scarcely  preferable  to 
the  darkness  and  gloom  of  night.  My  eyes  were  turned  over 
toward  the  plain,  across  which  the  winter  wind  bore  the  plash- 
ing rain  in  vast  sheets  of  water — the  thunder  crashed  louder  and 
louder,  but  except  the  sounds  of  the  storm  none  others  met  my 
ear.  Not  a man,  not  a human  figure  could  I see  as  I strained 
my  sight  toward  the  distant  horizon. 

The  morning  crept  over,  but  the  storm  abated  not,  and  the 
same  unchanged  aspect  of  dreary  desolation  prevailed  without. 
At  times  I thought  I could  hear  amidst  the  noises  of  the  tem- 
pest something  like  the  roll  of  distant  artillery;  but  the  thun- 
der swelled  in  sullen  roar  above  all,  and  left  me  uncertain  as 
before. 

At  last,  in  a momentary  pause  of  the  storm,  a tremendous  peal 
of  heavy  guns  caught  my  ear,  followed  by  the  long  rattling 
of  small  arms;  my  heart  bounded  with  ecstasy.  The  thought  of 
the  battle-field,  with  all  its  changing  fortunes,  was  better,  a 
thousand  times  better,  tlian  the  despairing  sense  of  desertion  I 
labored  under.  I listened  now  with  eagerness,  but  the  rain 
bore  down  again  in  torrents,  and  the  crumbling  walls  and  fall- 
ing timbers  left  no  other  sounds  to  be  heard.  I ar  as  my  eye 
could  reach  nothing  could  still  be  seen  save  the  dreary  monot- 


CHARLES  aMALLEY.  17 

ony  of  the  vast  plain,  undulating  slightly  here  and  there,  but 
unmarked  by  a sign  of  man. 

Far  away  toward  the  horizon,  I had  remarked  for  some  time 
past  that  the  clouds  resting  upon  the  earth  grew  blacker  and 
blacker,  spreading  out  to  either  side  in  vast  masses,  and  not 
broken  or  wafted  along  like  the  rest.  As  I watched  the 
phenomenon  with  an  anxious  eye,  I perceived  the  dense  mass 
suddenly  appear  as  it  were  rent  asunder,  while  a volume  of 
liquid  flame  rushed  wildly  out,  throwing  a lurid  glare  on  every 
side.  One  terriflc  clap,  louder  than  any  thunder,  shook  the  air 
at  this  moment,  while  the  very  earth  trembled  beneath  the 
shock. 

As  I hesitated  what  it  might  be,  the  heavy  din  of  great  guns 
was  heard,  and  from  the  midst  of  the  black  smoke  rode  forth  a 
dark  mass,  which  I soon  recognized  as  the  horse  artillery  at  full 
gallop.  They  were  directing  their  course  toward  the  bridge. 

As  they  mounted  the  little  rising  ground,  they  wheeled  and 
unlimbered  with  the  speed  of  lightning,  just  as  a strong  column 
of  cavalry  showed  above  the  ridge.  One  tremenduous  discharge 
again  shook  the  field,  and  ere  the  smoke  cleared  away  they 
were  again  far  in  retreat. 

So  much  was  my  attention  occupied  with  this  movement,  that 
I had  not  perceived  the  long  line  of  infantry  that  came  from  the 
extreme  left,  and  were  now  advancing  also  toward  the  brdige  at 
a brisk  quick  step;  scattered  bodies  of  cavalry  came  up  from 
different  parts,  while  from  the  little  valley  every  now  and  then 
a rifleman  would  mount  the  rising  ground,  turning  to  fire  as  he 
retreated.  All  this  boded  a rapid  and  disorderly  retreat;  and, 
alt  hough  as  yet  I could  see  nothing  of  the  pursuing  enemy,  I 
kne^  too  well  the  relative  force  of  each  to  have  a doubt  for  thQ 
result. 

At  last,  the  head  of  a French  column  appeared  abovg  the  mist, 
and  I could  plainly  distinguish  the  gestures  of  the  officers  as 
they  hurried  their  men  onward.  Meanwhile,  a loud  hurrah 
attracted  my  attention,  and  I turned  my  eyes  toward  the  road 
which  led  to  the  river.  Here  a small  body  of  the  Ninety-fifth 
having  hurriedly  assembled  and  formed  again,  were  standing  to 
cover  the  retreat  of  the  broken  infantry  as  they  passed  on 
eagerly  to  the  bridge;  in  a second  after  the  French  cuirassiers 
appeared.  Little  anticipating  resistance  from  a flying  and  dis- 
ordered mass,  they  rode  headlong  forward,  and  although  the 
firm  attitude  and  steady  bearing  of  the  Highlanders  might  have 
appalled  them,  they  rode  heedlessly  down  upon  the  square, 
sabering  the  very  men  in  the  front  rank.  Till  now  not  a trigger 
had  been  pulled,  when  suddenly  the  word  “fire”  was  given, 
and  a withering  volley  of  balls  sent  the  cavalry  cohimns  in 
shivers.  One  hearty  cheer  broke  from  the  infantry  in  the  rear, 
and  I could  hear  “ gallant  Ninety-fifth  ” shouted  on  every  side 
along  the  plain. 

The  whole  vast  space  before  me  was  now  one  animated  battle- 
ground. Our  own  troops,  retiring  in  haste  before  the  over- 
whelming forces  of  the  French,  occupied  every  little  vantage 
ground  with  their  guns  and  light  infantry,  charges  of  cavalry 


18 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


coursing  hither  and  thither,  and  the  French  pressed®  for  ward, 
while  the  retreating  columns  again  formed  into  squares  to  per- 
mit stragglers  to  come  up.  The  rattle  of  small  arms,  the  heavy- 
peal  of  artillery,  the  earthquake  crash  of  cavalry,  rose  on  every 
side,  while  the  cheers,  which  alternately  told  of  the  vacillating 
fortune  of  the  fight,  rose  amidst  the  wild  pibroch  of  the  High- 
landers. 

A tremendous  noise  now  took  place  on  the  floor  beneath  me, 
and,  looking  down,  I perceived  that  a sergeant  and  a party  of 
the  sappers  had  taken  possession  of  the  little  hut,  and  were 
busily  engaged  pierc^ing  the  walls  for  musketry;  and,  before 
many  minutes  had  elapsed,  a company  of  the  rifles  were  thrown 
into  the  building,  which,  from  its  commanding  position  above 
the  road,  enfiladed  the  whole  line  of  march.  The  officer  in 
command  briefly  informed  me  that  we  had  been  attacked  that 
morning  by  the  French  in  force  and  “ devilishly  well  thrashed.” 
That  we  were  now  in  retreat  beyond  the  Coa,  where  we 
ought  to  have  been  three  days  previously,  and  desired  me  to 
cross  the  bridge  and  get  myself  out  of  the  wa}"  as  soon  as  I pos- 
sibly could. 

A twenty-four  pounder  from  the  French  iines  struck  the 
angle  of  the  house  as  he  spoke,  scattering  the  mortar  and  broken 
bricks  about  us  on  all  sides.  This  was  warning  sufficient  for 
me,  wounded  and  disabled  as  I was.  So,  taking  the  few 
things  I could  save  in  my  haste,  I hurried  from  the  hut,  and, 
descending  the  path  now  slippery  by  the  heavy  rain,  I took  my 
way  across  the  bridge  and  established  myself  on  a little  rising 
knoll  of  ground  beyond,  from  which  a clear  view  could  be  ob- 
tained of  the  whole  field. 

I had  not  been  many  minutes  in  my  present  position  ere^the 
pass  which  led  down  to  the  bridge  became  thronged  with  troops, 
wagons,  ammunition -cares,  and  hospital  stores,  pressing  thickly 
forward  aftiid  shouting  and  uproar;  the  hills  on  either  side  of 
the  way  were  crowded  with  troops,  who  formed  as  they  came 
up,  the  artillery  taking  up  their  position  on  every  rising  ground. 
The  firing  had  already  begun,  and  the  heavy  booming  of  the 
large  guns  was  heard  at  intervals,  amid  the  rattling  crash  of 
musketry.  Except  the  narrow  road  before  me,  and  the  high 
bank  of  the  stream.  I could  see  nothing;  but  the  tumult  and  din, 
which  grew  momentarily  louder,  told  that  the  tide  of  battle 
waged  nearer  and  nearer.  Still  the  retreat  continued,  and  at 
length  the  heavy  artillery  came  thundering  across  the  narrow 
bridge,  followed  by  stragglers  of  all  arms,  and  wounded  hurry- 
ing to  the  rear;  the  sharpshooters  and  the  Highlanders  held  the 
heights  above  the  stream,  thus  covering  the  retiring  columns; 
but  I could  plainly  perceive  that  their  fire  was  gradually  slack- 
ening, and  that  the  guns  which  flanked  their  position  were 
withdrawn,  and  everything  bespoke  a speedy  retreat.  A tre- 
mendous discharge  of  musketry  at  this  moment,  accompanied 
by  a deafening  cheer,  announced  the  advance  of  the  French, 
and  soon  the  head  of  the  Highland  brigade  was  seen  descend- 
ing toward  the  bridge,  followed  by  the  rifles  and  the  Nine- 
ty-fifth; the  cavalry,  consisting  of  the  Eleventh  and  Four- 


CHARLES  ALLEY, 


19 


teenth  Light  Dragoons,  now  formed  in  column  of  attack, 
and  the  infantry  deployed  into  line,  and  in  an  instant  after,  high 
above  the  din  and  crash  of  battle  I heard  the  word  ‘‘charge!” 
The  rising  crest  of  the  hill  hid  them  from  my  sight,  but  my 
heart  bounded  with  ecstasy  as  I listened  to  the  clanging  sound 
of  the  cavalry  advance.  Meanwhile,  the  infantry  pressed  on, 
and  forming  upon  the  bank,  took  up  a strong  position  in  front 
of  the  bridge;  the  heavy  guns  were  also  unlimbered,  riflemen 
scattered  through  the  low  copse  wood,  and  every  precaution 
taken  to  defend  the  pass  to  the  last.  For  a moment  all  my  at- 
tention was  riveted  to  the  movements  upon  our  own  side  of  the 
stream,  when  suddenly  the  cavalry  bugle  sounded  the  recall, 
and  the  same  moment  the  staff  came  gallopingacross  the  bridge. 
One  officer T could  perceive,  covered  with  orders  and  trappings; 
his  head  was  bare,  and  liis  horse,  splashed  with  blood  and 
foam,  moved  lamely;  and  with  difficulty  he  turned  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  bridge,  as  if  irresolute  whether  to  retreat  further — one 
glance  at  him  showed  me  the  bronzed  manly  features  of  our 
leader.  Whatever  his  resolve,  the  matter  was  soon  decided  for 
him,  for  the  cavalry  came  galloping  swiftly  down  the  slope, 
and  in  an  instant  the  bridge  was  blocked  up  by  the  retreating 
forces;  while  the  French  as  suddenly  appearing  above  the 
height,  opened  a plungiug  fire  upon  their  defenseless  enemies; 
their  cheer  of  triumph  was  answered  by  our  fellows  from  the  op- 
posite bank,  and  a heavy  cannonade  thundered  along  the  rocky 
valley,  sending  up  a hundred  echoes  as  it  went. 

The  scene  now  became  one  of  overwhelming  interest;  the 
French,  posting  their  guns  upon  the  height,  replied  to  our  fire, 
while  their  column,  breaking  into  skirmishers,  descended  the 
banks  to  the  river  edge,  and  poured  in  one  sheet  of  galling  musket- 
ry. The  road  to  the  bridge,  swept  by  our  artillery,  presented  not  a 
single  file,  and,  although  a movement  among  the  French  an- 
nounced the  threat  of  an  attack,  the  deadly  service  of  the  artil- 
lery seemed  to  pronounce  it  hopeless. 

A strong  cavalry  force  stood  inactive  spectators  of  the  com- 
bat on  the  French  side,  among  whom  I now  remarked  some 
bustle  and  preparation,  and  as  I looked,  an  officer  rode  boldly 
to  the  river  edge,  and  spurring  his  horse  forward,  plunged  into 
the  stream.  The  swollen  and  angry  torrent,  increased  by  the 
late  rains,  boiled  like  barm,  and  foamed  around  him  as  he  ad- 
vanced, when  suddenly  his  horse  appeared  to  have  lost  its  foot- 
ing, and  the  rapid  current  circling  around  him,  bore  him  along 
with  it.  He  labored  madly,  but  in  vain,  to  retrace  his  steps; 
the  rolling  torrent  rose  above  his  saddle,  and  all  that  his  gallant 
steed  could  do  was  barely  sufficient  to  keep  afloat;  both  man 
and  horse  were  carried  down  between  the  contending  armies.  I 
could  see  him  wave  his  hand  to  his  comrades  as.  if  in  adieu;  one 
deafening  cheer  of  admiration  rose  from  the  French  lines,  and 
the  next  moment  he  was  seen  to  fall  from  his  seat,  and  his  body 
shattered  with  balls  floated  mournfully  upon  the  stream. 

This  little  incident,  to  which  both  armies  were  witnesses, 
seemed  to  have  called  forth  all  the  fiercer  passions  of  the  con- 
tending forces;  a loud  yell  of  taunting  triumph  rose  from  the 

f’  - 


20 


CEARLEis  QMALLEYr 

Highlanders,  responded  to  by  a cry  of  vengeance  from  the 
French,  and  the  same  moment  the  head  of  a column  was  seen 
descending  the  narrow  causeway  to  the  bridge,  while  an  officer, 
with  a wliole  blaze  of  decorations  and  crosses,  sprung  from  his 
horse  and  took  the  lead.  The  little  drummer,  a child  of  scarce 
ten  years  old,  tripped  gayly  on,  beating  his  little  pas  de  charge, 
seeming  rather  like  the  play  of  infancy  than  the  summons  to 
death  and  carnage,  as  the  heavy  guns  of  the  French  opened  a 
volume  of  fire  and  fiame  to  cover  the  attacking  column;  for  a 
moment  all  was  hid  from  our  eyes;  the  moment  after  the  grape 
shot  swept  along  the  narrow  causeway,  and  the  hedge,  which, 
till  a second  before,  was  crowded  with  the  life  and  courage  of  a 
noble  column,  was  now  one  heap  of  dead  and  dying;  the  gallant 
fellow  who  led  them  on  fell  among  the  first  rank,  and  the  little 
child,  as  if  kneeling,  was  struck  dead  beside  the  parapet;  his  fair 
hair  floated  across  his  cold  features,  and  seemed  in  its  motion  to 
leave  a look  of  life,  when  the  heart’s  throb  had  ceased  forever. 
The  artillery  again  reopened  upon  us,  ard,  w-hen  the  smoke  had 
cleared  away,  we  discovered  that  the  French  had  advanced  to 
the  middle  of  the  bridge  and  carried  off  the  body  of  their  Gen- 
eral. Twice  they  essayed  to  cross,  and  twice  the  death-dealing 
fire  of  our  guns  covered  the  narrow  bridge  with  slain,  while — 
the  wild  pibroch  of  the  Forty-second  swelling  madly  into  notes 
of  exultation  and  triumph — the  Highlanders  could  scarcely  be 
prevented  from  advancing  hand  to  hand  with  the  foe.  Gradu- 
ally the  French  slackened  their  fire,  their  great  guns  were  one 
by  one  withdrawn  from  the  heights,  and  a dropping,  irregular 
musketry  at  intervals  sustained  the  fight,  which  ere  sunset 
ceased  altogether — and  thus  terminated  the  battle  of  the  Coa. 


CHAPTER  LXXIII. 

THE  NIGHT  MARCH, 

Scarcely  had  the  night  fallen  when  our  retreat  commenced. 
Tired  and  weary  as  our  brave  fellows  felt,  but  little  repose  was 
allowed  them;  their  bivouac  fires  were  blazing  brightly,  and 
they  had  just  thrown  themselves  in  groups  around  them,  when 
the  word  to  fall  in  was  passed  from  troop  to  troop,  and  from  bat- 
talion to  battalion,  no  trumpet,  no  bugle  called  them  to  their 
ranks.  It  was  necessary  that  all  should  be  done  noiselessly  and 
speedily.  While,  therefore,  the  wounded  were  marched  to  the 
front,  and  the  heavy  artillery  with  them,  a brigade  of  light  four* 
pounders  and  two  squadrons  of  cavalry  held  the  heights  above 
the  bridge,  and  the  infantry  forming  into  three  columns  began 
their  march. 

My  wound,  forgotten  in  the  heat  and  excitement  of  the  con- 
flict, was  now  becoming  excessively  painful,  and  I gladly  availed 
myself  of  a place  in  a wagon,  where,  stretched  upon  some  fresh 
straw,  with  no  other  covering  save  the  starry  sky,  I soon  fell 
sound  asleep,  and  neither  the  heavy  jolting  of  the  rough  convey- 
ance, nor  the  deep  and  rutty  road,  was  able  to  disturb  my 
slumbers.  Still,  through  my  sleep  I heard  the  sounds  around  me, 

nf  infr>nfT\7-  f.ho 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


21 


and  tiie  dull  roll  of  artillery;  and  ever  and  anon  the  half-stifled 
cry  of  pain,  mingling  with  the  reckless  carol  of  some  drinking 
song,  all  flitted  through  my  dreams,  lending  to  my  thoughts  of 
home  and  friends  a memory  of  glorious  war. 

All  the  vicissitudes  of  a soldier’s  life  passed  then  in  review  be^ 
fore  me,  elicited  in  some  measure  by  the  things  about.  The 
pomp  and  grandeur,  the  misery  and  meanness,  the  triumph,  the 
defeat  the  moment  of  victory,  and  the  hour  of  death,  were  there, 
and  in  that  vivid  dream  I lived  a long  life. 

I awoke  at  length,  the  cold  and  chilling  air  which  follows  mid- 
night blew  around  me,  and  my  wounded  arm  felt  as  though  it 
were  frozen.  I tried  to  cover  myself  beneath  the  straw,  but  in 
vain ; and  as  my  limbs  trembled,  and  my  teeth  chattered,  I thought 
again  of  home,  where  at  that  moment  the  poorest  menial  of  my 
uncle’s  house  was  better  lodged  than  I;  and  strange  to  say,  some- 
thing of  pride  mingled  with  the  thought,  and  in  my  lonely  heart 
a feeling  of  elation  cheered  me. 

These  reflections  were  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  a voice  near 
me,  which  I at  once  knew  to  be  O’Shaughnessy’s;  he  was  on 
foot,  and  speaking  evidently  in  some  excitement. 

“ I tell  you,  Maurice,  some  confounded  blunder  there  must  be; 
sure,  he  was  left  in  that  cottage  near  the  bridge, and  no  one  ever 
saw  him  after.” 

‘‘The  French  took  it  from  the  rifles  before  we  crossed  the  river. 
By  Jove,  I’ll  wager  my  chance  of  promotion  against  a pint  of 
sherry  he’ll  turn  up  somewhere  in  the  morning,  those  Galway 
chaps  have  as  many  lives  as  a cat.” 

“ See  now,  Maurice,  I wouldn’t  for  a full  colonelcy  anything 
would  happen  to  liim — I like  the  boy.” 

“ So  do  I myself;  but  I tell  you  there’s  no  danger  of  him;  did 
you  ask  Sparks  anything  ?” 

“Ask  Sparks,  God  help  you!  Sparks  would  go  off  in  a fit  at 
the  sight  of  me.  No,  no,  poor  creature,  it’s  little  use  it  would 
be  my  speaking  to  him.” 

“Why  so.  Doctor:”  cried  I,  from  my  straw  couch. 

“May  I never — if  it’s  not  him.  Charley,  my  son,  I’m  glad 
you’re  safe.  Faith,  I thought  you  were  on  your  way  to  Verdun 
by  this  time.” 

“Sure,  T told  you  he’d  find  his  way  here — but,  O’Mealey,  dear, 
you’re  mighty  cowld — a rigor,  as  ould  M’Lauchlan  would  call 
it.” 

“E’en  sae,  maister  Quill,”  said  a broad  Scotch  accent  behind 
him;  “ and  I canna  see  ony  objection  to  gie’in’  things  their  right 
names.” 

“The  top  of  the  morning  to  jmu,”  said  Mr.  Quill,  familiarly 
patting  him  on  the  back;  “ how  goes  it,  old  brimstone  ?” 

The  conversation  might  not  have  taken  a very  amicable  turn 
had  M’Lauchlan  heard  the  latter  part  of  this  speech,  but  as,  hap- 
pily, he  was  engaged  unpacking  a small  canteen  which  he  had 
placed  in  the  wagon,  it  passed  unnoticed. 

“Ye’ll  nae  dislike  a toothfu’  o’  something  warm.  Major?”,  said 
he,  presenting  a glass  to  O’Shaughnessy;  ♦‘and  if  you’ll  permit 
me,  Mr.  O’Mealey,  to  help  you 


62 


CHARLES  aAIALLEY. 


“ A thousand  thanks,  Doctor,  but  I fear  a broken  arm — — 

“ There’s  naething  in  the  whisky  to  prevent  the  proper  forma- 
tion of  callus.” 

the  rock  of  Cashel,  it  never  made  any  one  callous,”  said 
O’Shaughnessy,  mistaking  the  import  of  the  phrase. 

“Ye  are  nae  drinking  frae  the  flask,”  said  the  Doctor,  turning 
in  some  agitation  toward  Quill. 

“ Devil  a bit,  my  darling.  I’ve  a little  horn  convaniency  here 
that  holds  half  a pint,  nice  measure.” 

I don’t  imagine  that  our  worthy  friend  participated  in  Quill’s 
admiration  of  the  convaniency,  for  he  added  in  a dry  tone: 

“ Ye  may  as  weel  tak  your  liquor  frae  a glass  like  a Christian, 
as  stick  your  nose  in  a cob’s  horn.” 

“ By  my  conscience,  you’re  no  small  judge  of  spirits,  wherever 
you  learned  it,”  said  the  Major,  “it’s  like  Islay  malt.” 

“I  was  aye  reckoned  a gude  ane,”  said  the  Doctor;  “and  my 
mither’s  brither,  Caimbogie,  had  na  his  like  in  the  north  country ; 
ye  maybe  heerd  tell  what  he  aince  said  to  the  Duchess  of  Argyle 
when  she  sent  him  to  taste  her  claret.” 

“ Never  heard  of  it,”  quoth  Quill;  “ let  us  have  it  by  all  means. 
I’d  like  to  hear  what  the  Duchess  said  to  him.” 

“ It  was  na  what  the  Duchess  said  to  him,  but  what  he  said  to 
the  Duchess,  ye  ken;  the  way  of  it  was  this:  My  uncle  Caimbogie 
was  aye  up  at  the  Castle,  for,  beside  his  knowledge  of  liquor, 
there  was  na  his  match  for  deer-stalking,  or  spearing  a salmon 
in  those  parts.  He  was  a great  rough  carl,  it’s  true;  but  ane  y’d 
rather  crack  wi’  than  fecht  wi’. 

“ We’ll,  ae  day  they  had  a grand  dinner  at  the  Duke’s  and 
there  were  plenty  o’  great  southern  lords  and  braw  led  dies  in 
velvet  and  satin,  and  vara  muckle  surprised  they  were  at  my 
uncle  when  he  cam  in  wi’  his  tartan  and  kilt,  in  full  Highland 
dress,  as  the  head  of  a clan  ought  to  do.  Caimbogie,  however, 
pe’d  nae  attention  to  them,  but  he  eat  his  dinner,  and  drank  his 
wine,  and  talked  away  about  fallow  and  red  deer,  and  at  last 
the  Duchess — for  she  was  aye  fond  of  him — addressed  him  frae 
the  head  of  the  table; 

“ ‘ Caimbogie,’  quo’  she,  ‘ I’d  like  to  hae  your  opinion  about 
that  wine.  It’s  some  the  Duke  has  just  received,  and  we  should 
like  to  hear  what  you  think  of  it.’ 

“ ‘ It’s  nae  sae  bad,  my  leddy,’  said  my  uncle;  for  you  see  he 
was  a man  of  few  words,  and  never  flattered  onybody. 

. “ ‘ Then  you  don’t  approve  much  of  it  ?’  said  the  Duchess. 

“ ‘ I’ve  drank  better,  and  I’ve  drank  waur,’  quo’  he. 

“ * I’m  sorry  you  don’t  like  it,  Caimbogie,’  said  the  Duchess, 
‘ for  it  can  never  be  popular  now,  we  have  such  a dependence 
on  your  taste,’ 

“ ‘I  canna  say  ower  muckle  for  my  taste,  my  leddy;  but  ae 
Ihing  I ivill  say — I’ve  a most  damnable  smell.’ 

“I  hear  that  never  since  the  auld  walls  stood  was  there  ever 
the  like  o’  the  laughing  that  followed — the  puir  Duke  himself 
was  carried  away,  and  nearly  had  a fit,  and  a’  the  grand  lords 
and  leddies  a’most  died  of  it;  but  see  here,  the  carl  has  na  left  % 
drap  o’  whisky  in  the  flask.” 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


23 


“ The  last  glass  I drained  to  your  respectable  uncle’s  health,” 
said  Quill,  with  a most  professional  gravity;  “now,  Charley, 
make  a little  room  for  me  in  the  straw.” 

The  Doctor  soon  mounted  beside  me,  and  giving  me  a share  of 
his  ample  cloak,  considerably  ameliorated  my  situation. 

“ So  you  knew  Sparks,  Doctor  ?”  said  I with  a strong  curios- 
ity to  hear  something  of  their  early  acquaintance. 

“That  I did— I knew  him  when  he  was  ensign  in  the  Tenth 
foot,  and  to  say  the  truth,  he  is  not  much  changed  since  that 
time;  the  same  lively  look  of  a sick  codfish  about  his  gray  eyes; 
the  same  disorderly  wave  of  his  yellow  hair;  the  same  sad  whin- 
ing voice,  and  that  confounded  apothecary’s  laugh.” 

“Come,  come.  Doctor,  Sparks  is  a good  fellow  at  heart — I 
won’t  have  him  abused.  I never  knew  he  had  been  in  the  in- 
fantry; I should  think  it  must  have  been  another  of  the  same 
name.” 

“ Not  at  all;  there’s  only  one  like  him  in  the  service,  and  that’s 
himself.  Confound  it,  man,  I'd  know  his  skin  upon  a bush;  he 
was  only  three  w^eeks  in  the  Tenth,  and,  indeed,  your  humble  serv- 
ant has  the  whoL^  merit  of  his  leaving  it  so  soon.” 

“ Do  let  me  hear  how  that  happened.” 

“ Simply  thus — the  jolly  Tenth  were,  some  four  years  ago,  the 
pleasantest  corps  in  the  army,  from  the  Lieutenant- Colonel 
down  to  the  last  joined  sub — all  were  out-and-outers,  real  gay 
fellows.  The  mess  was,  in  fact,  like  a pleasant  club,  and  if  you 
did  not  suit  it,  the  best  thing  you  could  do  was  to  sell  out  or  ex- 
change into  a slower  regiment,  and,  indeed,  this  very  wholesome 
truth  was  not  very  long  in  reaching  your  ears  some  way  or 
other;  and  a man  that  could  remain  after  being  given  this  hint, 
was  likely  to  go  afterward  without  one.” 

Just  as  Dr.  Quill  reached  this  bit  of  his  story,  an  orderly  dra- 
goon galloped  furiously  past,  and  the  next  moment  an  aid-de- 
camp  rode  by,  calling  as  he  passed  us — “ close  up  there,  close  up! 
Get  forward,  my  lads,  get  forward!” 

It  was  evident  from  the  stir  and  bustle  about,  that  some  move- 
ment was  being  made,  and  soon  after  a dropping  irregular  fire 
toward  the  rear  sliowed  that  our  cavalry  were  engaged  with 
the  enemy;  the  affair  was  scarcely  of  five  minutes’  duration,  and 
our  march  resumed  all  its  former  regularity  immediately  after. 
I now  turned  to  the  Doctor  to  resume  his  story,  but  he  was  gone; 
at  what  moment  he  left  I could  not  say,  but  6’Shaughnessy  w^as 
also  absent;  nor  did  I again  meet  with  them  for  a considerable 
time  after.  Toward  daybreak  we  halted  at  Bonares,  when,  my 
wound  demanding  rest  and  attention,  I was  billeted  in  the  vil- 
lage, and  consigned  to  all  the  miseries  of  a sick  bed. 


CHAPTER  LXXIV. 

THE  JOURNEY. 

With  that  disastrous  day  my  campaigning  was  destined,  for 
some  time  at  least,  to  conclude.  My  wound,  wdiich  grew  from 
hour  to  hour  more  threatening,  at  length  began  to  menace  the 


24 


CHARLES  GMALLEY. 


loss  of  the  arm,  and  by  the  recommendation  of  the  regimental 
surgeons  I was  ordered  back  to  Lisbon. 

Mike,  by  this  time  perfectly  restored,  prepared  everything  for 
my  departure,  and  on  the  third  day  after  the  battle  of  the  Coa 
I began  my  journey  .v^ith  downcast  spirits  and  depressed  heart. 
The  poor  fellow  was,  however,  a kind  and  affectionate  nurse, 
and,  unlike  many  others,  his  cares  were  not  limited  to  the  mere 
bodily  wants  of  his  patient;  he  sustained,  as  well  as  he  was  able, 
my  droopiny  rescJution,  rallied  my  spirits,  and  cheered  my  cour- 
age. With  the  very  little  Portuguese  he  possessed,  he  contrived 
to  make  every  imaginable  species  of  bargain;  always  managed  a 
good  billet;  kept  every  one  in  good  'lumor;  and  rarely  left  his 
quarters  in  the  morning  without  a most  affecting  leave-taking, 
and  reiterated  promises  to  renew  his  visit. 

Our  journeys  were  usually  short  ones,  and  already  two  days 
had  elapsed,  when,  toward  nightfall,  we  entered  the  little  ham- 
let of  Jaffra.  During  the  entire  of  that  day  the  pain  of  my 
w^ounded  limb  had  been  excruciating;  the  fatigue  of  the  road 
and  the  heat  had  brought  back  violent  inflammation,  and,  when  at 
last  the  little  village  came  in  sight,  my  reason  was  fast  yielding 
to  the  torturing  agonies  of  my  wound;  but  the  transports  with 
which  I greeted  my  resting-place  were  soon  destined  to  a change, 
for  as  we  drew*  near  not  a light  was  to  be  seen,  not  a sound  to  be 
heard,  not  even  a dog  barked,  as  the  heavy  mule-cart  rattled 
over  the  uneven  road.  No  trace  of  any  living  thing  was  there; 
the  little  hamlet  lay  sleeping  in  the  pale  moonlight,  its  streets 
deserted,  and  its  homes  tenantless;  our  own  footsteps  alone 
echoed  along  the  dreary  causeway;  here  and  there,  as  we  ad- 
vanced further,  we  found  some  relics  of  broken  furniture  and 
house  gear;  most  of  the  doors  lay  open,  but  nothing  remained 
within  save  bare  walls;  the  embers  still  smoked  in  many  places 
upon  the  hearth,  and  showed  us  that  the  flight  of  the  inhabitants 
had  been  recent.  Yet  everything  convinced  us  that  the  French 
had  not  been  there;  there  was  no  trace  of  the  reckless  violence 
and  wanton  cruelty  which  marked  their  footsteps  everywhere. 

All  proved  that  the  desertion  had  been  voluntary;  perhaps  in 
compliance  with  an  order  of  our  Commander-in-Chief,  who  fre- 
quently desired  any  intended  line  of  march  of  the  enem  ^ to  be 
left  thus  a desert."  As  we  sauntered  slowly  on  from  s teet  to 
street,  half  hoping  that  some  one  human  being  yet  remained  be- 
hind, and  casting  our  eyes  from  side  to  side  in  search  of  quar- 
ters for  the  night,  Mike  suddenly  came  running  up,  saying: 

“I  have  it,  sir — I’ve  found  it  out — there’s  people  living  down 
th£t  small  street  there — I saw  a light  this  minute  as  I passed.” 

I turned  immediately,  and,  accompanied  by  the  mule-driver, 
followed  Mike  across  a little  open  square  into  a small  and  nar- 
row street,  at  the  end  of  which  a light  was  seen  faintly  twink- 
ling; we  hurried  on,  and  in  a few  minutes  reached  a high  wall 
of  solid  masonry,  from  a niche  of  which  we  now  discovered,  to 
our  utter  dtsappointment,  the  light  proceeded.  It  was  a small 
lamp  placed  before  a little  waxen  image  of  the  Virgin,  and  was 
I)robably  the  last  act  of  piety  of  some  poor  villager  ere  he  left 


CHARLES  a MALLET, 


2o 


fiis  home  and  hearth  forever;  there  it  burned  brightly  and  tran- 
quilly, throwing  its  mellow  ray  upon  the  cold  deserted  stones. 

Whatever  impatience  I might  have  given  way  to  in  a moment 
of  chagrin,  was  soon  repressed,  as  I saw  my  two  followers,  un- 
covering their  heads  in  silent  reverence,  kneel  down  before  the 
little  shrine.  There  was  something  at  once  touching  and  solemn 
in  this  simultaneous  feeling  of  homage  from  the  hearts  of  those 
removed  in  country,  language,  and  in  blood — they  bent  meekly 
down;  their  heads  bowed  upon  their  bosoms,  while  with  mutter- 
ing voices  each  offered  up  his  prayer.  All  sense  of  their  disap- 
pointment, alJ  memory  of  their  forlorn  state,  seemed  to  have 
yielded  to  more  powerful  and  absorbing  thoughts,  as  they 
opened  their  hearts  in  prayer. 

My  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  them,  when  suddenly  Mike, 
whose  devotion  seemed  of  the  briefest,  sprung  to  his  legs,  and 
with  a spirit  of  levity  but  little  in  accordance  with  his  late  pro- 
ceedings, commen^^ed  a series  of  kicking,  rapping,  and  knocking 
at  a small  oak  postern,  sufficient  to  have  aroused  a whole  con- 
vent from  their  cells.  “House  there!  good  people  within!” — 
bang,  bang,  bang;  but  the  echoes  alone  responded  to  his  call,  and 
the  sounds  died  away  at  length  in  the  distant  streets,  leaving  all 
as  silent  and  dreary  as  before. 

Our  Portuguese  friend,  who,  by  this  time  had  finished  his  ori- 
sons, now  began  a vigorous  attack  upon  the  small  door,  and 
with  the  as^stance  of  Mike,  armed  with  a fragment  of  granite 
about  the  size  of  a man’s  head,  at  length  separated  tlie  frame 
from  the  hinges,  and  sent  the  whole  mass  prostrate  before  us. 

The  moon  was  just  rising  as  we  entered  the  little  park,  whose 
graveled  walks,  neatly-kept  and  well-trimmed,  bespoke  recent 
care  and  attention.  Following  a handsome  alley  of  lime  trees 
we  reached  a little  jet  d'eau^  whose  sparkling  fountain  shone 
like  diamonds  in  the  moonbeams,  and  escaping  from  the  edge  of 
a vast  shell,  ran  murmuring  amid  mossy  stones  and  water  lilies, 
that,  however  naturally  tliey  seemed  thrown  around,  bespoke 
also  the  hand  of  taste  in  their  position.  On  turning  from  the 
spot,  we  came  directly  in  front  of  an  old  but  handsome  chateau, 
before  which  stretched  a terrace  of  considerable  extent.  Its  bal- 
lustraded  parapet,  lined  with  orange  trees,  now  in  full  blossom, 
scented  the  still  air  with  their  delkdous  odor;  marble  statues 
peeped  here  and  there  amid  the  foliage,  while  a rich  “ acacia, 
loaded  with  fiowers,  covered  the  walls  of  the  building,  and 
hung  in  vast  masses  of  variegated  blossom  across  the  tall  win- 
dows. 

As  leaning  on  Mike’s  arm  I slowly  ascended  the  steps  of  the 
terrace,  I was  more  than  ever  struck  with  the  silence  and  death- 
like stillness  around;  except  the  gentle  plash  of  the  fountain,  all 
was  at  rest;  the  very  plants  seemed  to  sleep  in  the  yellow  moon- 
light, and  not  a trace  of  any  living  thing  was  there. 

The  massive*  door  lay  open  as  we  entered  the  spacious  hall 
flagged  with  marble,  and  surrounded  with  armorial  bearings. 
We  advanced  further,  and  came  to  a broad  and  handsome  stair 
which  led  us  to  a long  gallery,  from  which  a suite  of  rooms 
opened^  looking  toward  the  front  part  of  the  building,  Wher- 


28 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


ever  we  went,  the  furniture  appeared  perfectly  untouched; 
nothing  was  removed;  the  very  chairs  were  grouped  around  the 
windows  and  the  tables;  books,  as  if  suddenly  dropped  from 
their  readers’  hands,  were  scattered  upon  the  sofas  and  the  otto- 
mans; and  in  one  small  apartment,  whose  blue  satin  walls  and 
damask  drapery  bespoke  a boudoir,  a rich  mantilla  of  black 
velvet  and  a silk  glove  were  thrown  upon  a chair.  It  was  clear 
the  desertion  had  been  most  recent;  and  everything  indicated 
that  no  time  had  been  given  to  the  fugitives  to  prepare  for 
flight.  What  a sad  picture  of  war  was  there!  to  think  of  those 
whose  home,  endeared  to  them  by  all  the  refinements  of  cul- 
tivated life,  and  all  the  associations  of  years  of  happiness,  sent 
out  upon  the  wide  world,  wanderers  and  houseless;  while  their 
hearth,  sacred  by  every  tie  that  binds  us  to  our  kindred,  was  to 
be  desecrated  by  the  ruthless  and  savage  hands  of  a ruffian 
soldiery.  I thought  of  them;  perhaps  at  that  very  hour  their 
thoughts  were  clinging  round  the  old  walls;  lemembering  each 
well-beloved  spot,  while  they  took  their  lonely  path  through 
mountain  and  through  valley;  and  I felt  ashamed  and  abashed 
at  my  own  intrusion  there.  While  thus  my  reverie  ran  on,  I 
had  not  perceived  that  Mike,  whose  views  were  very  practical 
upon  all  occasions,  had  lighted  a most  cheerful  fire  upon  the 
hearth,  and  disposing  a large  sofa  before  it,  had  carefully 
closed  the  curtains,  and  was  in  fact  making  himself  and  his 
master  as  much  at  home  as  though  he  had  spent  hfe  life  there. 

“Isn’t  it  a beautiful  place,  Misther  Charles?  and  this  little 
room,  doesn’t  it  remind  you  of  the  blue  bedroom  in  O’Malley 
Castle,  barrin’  the  elegant  view  out  upon  the  Shannon,  aud 
the  mountain  of  Scariff  ?” 

Nothing  short  of  Mike’s  patriotism  could  forgive  such  a com- 
parison; but,  however,  I did  not  contradict  him  as  he  ran  on: 

“ Faith,  I knew  well  there  was  luck  in  store  for  us  this  even- 
ing; and  ye  see  the  handful  of  prayers  I threw  away  outside 
wasn’t  lost.  Jose’s  making  the  beasts  comfortable  in  the  stable, 
and  I’m  thinking  we’ll  none  of  us  complain  of  our  quarters.  But 
you’re  not  eating  your  supper;  and  the  beautiful  hare  pie  that  I 
stole  this  morning,  won't  you  taste  it  ? well,  a glass  of  Malaga  ? 
Oh,  mother  of  Moses!  what’s  this  for?” 

Unfortunately,  the  fever  produced  by  the  long  and  toilsome 
journey  had  grained  considerably  on  me.  and,  except  copious 
libations  of  cold  water,  I could  touch  nothing;  my  arm,  too,  was 
much  more  painful  than  before.  Mike  soon  perceived  that  rest 
and  quietness  were  most  important  to  me  at  the  moment,  and, 
having  with  difficulty  been  prevailed  upon  to  swallow  a few 
hurried  mouthfuls,  the  poor  fellow,  having  disposed  cushions 
around  me  in  every  imaginable  form  for  comfort,  and  having 
placed  my  wounded  limb  in  its  easiest  position,  extinguished  the 
lamp,  and  sat  silently  down  beside  the  hearth,  without  speaking 
another  word. 

Fatigue  and  exhaustion,  more  powerful  than  the  pain,  soon 
produced  their  effects  upon  me,  and  I fell  asleep;  but  it  was 
no  refreshing  slumber  which  visited  my  heavy  eyelids;  the 
slow  fever  of  suffering  had  been  hour  by  hour  increasing. 


CUARLKS  a M ALLEY. 


n 

and  my  dreams  presented  nothing  but  scenes  of  agony  and 
• torture.  Now  1 thought  that,  unhorsed  and  wounded,  I was 
trampled  beneath  the  clanging  hoofs  of  charging  cavalry; 
now  I felt  the  sharp  steel  piercing  my  flesh,  and  heard  the 
loud  cry  of  a victorious  enemy;  then  methought  I was 
stretched  upon  a litter  covered  with  gore  and  mangled 
by  a grape  sliot.  I thought  I saw  my  brother  oflicers  ap- 
proach and  look  sadly  upon  me,  while  one,  whose  face  I could 
not  remember,  muttered,  “ I should  not  have  known  him.”  The 
dreadful  hospital  of  Talavera,  and  all  its  scenes  of  agony,  came 
up  before  me,  and  I thought  that  I lay  waiting  my  turn  for 
amputation;  this  last  impression,  more  horrible  to  me  than  all 
the  rest,  made  me  spring  from  my  couch,  and  I awoke;  the  cold 
drops  of  perspiration  stood  upon  my  brow,  my  mouth  was 
parched  and  open,  and  my  temples  throbbed  so  that  I could 
count  their  beatings;  for  some  seconds  I could  not  throw  off  the 
frightful  illusion  I labored  under,  and  it  was  only  by  degrees  1 
recovered  consciousness  and  remembered  where  I was.  Before 
me,  and  on  one  side  of  the  bright  wood  fire,  sat  Mike,  who,  ap- 
parently deep  in  thought,  gazed  fixedly  at  the  blaze;  the  start T 
gave  on  awakening  had  not  attracted  his  attention,  and  I could 
see,  as  the  flickering  glare  fell  upon  his  features,  that  he  was 
pale  and  ghastly,  while  his  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the  fire;  his 
lips  moved  rapidly,  as  if  in  prayer,  and  his  locked  hands  were 
pressed  firmly  upon  his  bosom;  his  voice,  at  first  inaudible,  I 
could  gradually  distinguish,  and  at  length  heard  the  following 
muttered  sentences: 

“ Oh,  Mother  of  mercy!  so  far  from  his  home  and  his  people, 
and  so  young,  to  die  in  a strange  land!  there  it  is  again.”  Here 
he  appeared  listening  to  some  sounds  from  without.  “Oh, 
wirra,  wdrra,  I know  it  well!  the  winding-sheet,  the  winding- 
sheet!  there  it  is,  my  own  eyes  saw  it!”  The  tears  coursed  fast 
upon  his  pale  cheeks,  and  his  voice  grew  almost  inaudible,  as 
rocking  to  and  fro,  for  some  time,  he  seemed  m a very  stupor  of 
grief,  when  at  last,  in  a faint,  sulDdued  tone,  he  broke  into  one 
of  those  sad  and  plaintive  airs  of  his  own  country,  which  only 
need  the  moment  of  depression  to  make  them  wring  the  very 
heart  in  agony. 

His  song  was  that  to  which  Moore  has  appended  the  beautiful 
words,  “ Come  rest  on  this  bosom;”  but  the  burden  of  his  sad 
melody  ran  thus; 

“ The  day  was  declining, 

The  dark  night  drew  near, 

And  the  old  Lord  grew  sadder, 

And  paler  with  fear. 

Come,  listen,  my  daughter, 

Come  nearer — oh!  near; 

Is’t  the  wind  or  the  water 
That  sighs  in  my  ear? 

“ Not  the  wind  nor  the  water 
Now  stirred  the  night  air, 

But  a warning  far  sadder— 

The  banshee  was  there. 


CHARLES  a HALLEY 

Now  rising,  now  swelling, 

On  the  night  wind  it  bore 
One  cadence,  still  telling, 

I want  thee,  Rossmorel 

“ And  then  fast  came  his  breath, 

And  more  fixed  grew  his  eye, 

And  the  shadow  of  death 
Told  his  hour  was  nigh. 

Ere  the  dawn  of  that  morning 
The  struggle  was  o’er. 

For  when  thrice  came  the  warning — 

A corpse  was  Rossmore!” 

The  plaintive  air  to  w^hich  these  words  were  sung  fell  heavi  (y 
upon  my  heart,  and  it  needed  but  the  low  and  nervous  conm- 
tion  I was  in  to  make  me  feel  their  application  to  myself.  B it 
so  it  is,  the  very  superstition  your  reason  rejects,  and  your  seiise 
spurns,  has,  from  old  association,  from  habit,  and  from  me^'e 
nationality,  too,  a hold  upon  your  hopes  and  fears  that  demands 
more  firmness  and  courage  than  a sick-bed  possesses  to  combat 
with  success,  and  T now  listened  with  an  eager  ear  to  mark  if 
the  banshee  cried,  rather  than  sought  to  fortify  myself  by  any 
recurrence  to  my  own  convictions.  Meanwhile,  Mike’s  attitude 
became  one  of  listening  attention;  not  a finger  moved;  he  scarce 
seemed  even  to  breathe;  the  state  of  suspense  I suffered  from 
was  maddening,  and  at  last,  unable  to  bear  it  longer,  I was  about 
to  speak,  when  suddenly,  from  the  fioor  beneath  us,  one  long- 
sustained  note  swelled  upon  the  air,  and  died  away  again,  and 
immediately  after,  to  the  cheerful  sounds  of  a guitar,  we  heard 
the  husky  voice  of  our  Portuguese  guide  indulging  himself  in 
a love-ditty. 

Ashamed  of  myself  for  my  fears,  I kept  silent;  but  Mike,  who 
felt  only  one  sensation — that  of  unmixed  satisfaction  at  his  mis 
take — rubbed  his  hands  pleasantly,  filled  up  his  glass,  drank  it, 
and  refilled;  while  with  an  accent  of  reassured  courage,  he 
briefly  remarked; 

“Well,  Mr.  Jose,  if  that  be  singing,  upon  my  conscience,  I 
wonder  what  crying  is  like!” 

I could  not  forbear  a laugh  at  the  oiticism,  and  in  a moment 
the  poor  fellow,  who  up  to  that  moment  believed  me  sleeping, 
was  beside  me.  I saw  from  his  manner  that  he  dreaded  lest  I 
had  been  listening  to  his  melancholy  song,  and  had  overheard  any 
of  his  gloomy  forebodings;  and,  as  he  cheered  my  spirits,  and 
spoke  encouragingly,  I could  remark  that  he  made  more  than 
usual  endeavors  to  appear  light- hearted  and  at  ease.  Deter- 
mined, however,  not  to  let  him  escape  so  easily,  I questioned 
him  about  his  belief  in  ghosts  and  spirits;  at  which  he  endeav- 
ored, as  he  ever  did  when  the  subject  was  an  unpleasing  one  to 
hear,  to  avoid  the  discussion;  but  rather  perceiving  that  I in- 
dulged in  no  irreverent  disrespect  of  these  matters,  he  grew 
gradually  more  open,  treating  the  affair  with  that  strange  mixt- 
ure of  credulity  and  mockery,  which  formed  his  estimate  of 
most  things.  Now  seeming  to  suppose  that  any  palpable  rejec- 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


29 


tion  of  them  might  entail  sad  consequences  in  future;  now  half 
ashamed  to  go  the  whole  length  in  his  credulity. 

‘‘And  so,  Mike,  you  never  saw  a ghost  yourself?  that  you 
acknowledge  ?” 

“No,  sir,  I never  saw  a real  ghost;  but  sure  there’s  many  a 
thing  I never  saw;  but  Mrs.  Moore,  the  housekeeper,  seen  two. 
And  your  grandfather  that’s  gone — the  Lord  be  good  to  him! — 
used  to  walk  once  a year  in  Lurra  Abbey;  and  sure  you  know 
the  story  about  Tim  Clinchy,  that  was  seen  every  Saturday  night 
coming  out  of  the  cellar  with  a candle  and  a mug  of  wine,  and 
a pipe  in  his  mouth,  till  Mr.  Barry  laid  him.  It  cost  his  honor, 
your  uncle,  ten  pounds  in  masses  to  make  him  easy;  not  to  speak 
of  a new  lock  and  two  bolts  on  the  cellar  door.” 

“I  have  heard  all  about  that;  but,  as  you  never  yourself  saw 
any  of  these  things ” 

“But  sure  my  father  did,  and  that’s  the  same  any  day.  My 
father  seen  the  greatest  ghost  * that  ever  was  seen  in  the  county 
Cork,  and  spent  the  evening  with  him,  that’s  more.” 

“ Spent  the  evening  with  him — what  do  you  mean  ?” 

‘ ‘ Just  that,  devil  a more  nor  less.  If  your  honor  wasn’t  so 
weak,  and  the  story  wasn’t  a trying  onfe,  Td  like  to  tell  it  to 
you.” 

“Out  with  it  by  all  means,  Mike;  I am  not  disposed  to  sleep, 
and  now  that  we  are  upon  these  matters,  my  curiosity  is  strong- 
ly excited  by  your  worthy  father’s  experience.” 

Thus  encouraged,  having  trimmed  the  fire,  and  reseated  him- 
self beside  the  blaze,  Mike  began;  but,  as  a ghost  is  no  every- 
day personage  in  our  history,  I must  give  him  a chapter  to 
himself. 


CHAPTER  LXXV. 

THE  GHOST. 

“ Well,  T believe  your  honor  heard  me  tel],  long  ago,  how 
my  father  left  the  army,  and  the  way  that  he  took  to  another 
line  of  life  that  was  more  to  his  liking.  And  so  it  was,  he  was 
happy  as  the  day  was  long;  he  drove  a hearse  for  Mr.  Callaghan 
of  Cork  for  many  years,  and  a pleasant  place  it  was;  for  ye  see, 
my  father  was  a cute  man,  and  knew  something  of  the  world; 
and  though  he  was  a droll  devil,  and  could  sing  a funny  song 
when  he  was  among  the  boys,  no  sooner  had  he  the  big  black 
cloak  on  him,  and  the  weepers,  and  he  seated  on  the  high  box 
with  thesix  long-tailed  blacks  before  him,you’d  really  think  it  was 
his  own  mother  was  inside,  he  looked  se  melancholy  and  miser- 
able. The  sexton  and  grave-digger  was  nothing  to  my  father, 
and  he  had  a look  about  his  eye,  to  be  sure  there  was  a reason 
for  it,  that  you’d  think  he  was  up  all  night  crying;  though  it’s 
little  indulgence  he  took  that  way. 

“Well,  of  all  Mr.  Callaghan’s  men,  there  was  none  so  great 
a favorite  as  my  father;  the  neighbors  were  all  fond  of  him. 

“ ‘ A kind  crayture  every  inch  of  him,’  the  women  would  say. 
‘ Did  ye  see  his  face  at  Mrs.  Delany ’s  funeral  ?’ 

“ ‘ True  for  you,’  another  would  remark;  ‘ he  mistook  the  road 


BO 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


with  grief,  and  stopped  at  a shebeen-house  instead  of  Kilmurry 
church.’ 

“ I need  say  no  more,  only  one  thing,  that  it  was  principally 
among  the  farmers  and  the  country  people  my  father  was  liked 
so  much.  The  great  people  and  the  qualit}^ — I ax  your  pardon 
— but  sure  isn’t  it  true,  Misther  Charles,  they  don't  fret  so  much 
after  their  fathers  and  brothers,  and  they  care  little  who’s  driv- 
ing them,  whether  it  was  a decent  respectable  man  like  my 
father,  or  a chap  with  a grin  on  him  like  a rat  trap  ? And  so  it 
happened  that  my  father  used  to  travel  half  the  country;  going 
here  and  there  wherever  there  was  trade  stirring;  and,  faix,  a 
man  didn’t  think  himself  rightly  buried  if  my  father  wasn’t 
there;  for  ye  see  he  knew  all  about  it;  he  could  tell  to  a quart  of 
sperits  what  would  be  wanting  for  a wake;  he  knew  all  the 
good  cryers  for  miles  round;  and  I’ve  heard  it  was  a beautiful 
sight  to  see  him  standing  on  a hill,  arranging  the  procession,  as 
they  walked  into  the  church-yard,  and  giving  the  word  like  a 
captain. 

“‘Come  on,  the  stiff— now  the  friends  of  the  stiff— now  the 
pop’lace.’ 

“That’s  what  he  used  to  say;  and,  troth,  he  was  always  re- 
peating it  when  he  was  a little  gone  in  drink — for  that’s  the 
time  his  spirits  would  rise — and  he’d  think  he  was  burying  half 
Munster. 

“And  sure  it  was  a.  real  pleasure  and  a pride  to  be  buried  in 
them  times;  for  av  it  was  only  a small  farmer  with  a potato 
garden,  my  father  would  come  down  with  the  black  cloak  on 
him,  and  three  yards  of  crape  behind  his  hat,  and  set  all  the 
children  crying  and  yelling  for  half  a mile  round;  and  then  the 
way  he’d  walk  before  them  with  a spade  on  his  shoulder,  and 
sticking  it  down  in  the  ground,  clap  his  hat  on  the  top  of  it,  to 
make  it  look  like  a chief  mourner.  It  was  a beautiful  sight!” 

“But,  Mike,  if  you  indulge  much  longer  in  this  flattering 
recollection  of  your  father,  I’m  afraid  we  shall  lose  sight  of  the 
ghost  entirely.” 

“ No  fear  in  life,  your  honor.  I’m  coming  to  him  now.  Well, 
it  was  this  way  it  happened:  In  the  winter  of  the  great  frost, 
about  forty-two  or  forty-three  years  ago,  the  ould  priest  of 
Tulloughmurray  took  ill  and  died;  he  was  sixty  years  priest  of 
the  parish,  and  mightily  beloved  by  all  the  people,  and  good 
reason  for  it;  a pleasanter  man.  and  a more  social  crayture  never 
lived;  ’twas  himself  was  the  life  of  the  whole  country-side.  A 
wedding  nor  a christening  wasn’t  lucky  av  he  wasn’t  there,  sit- 
ting at  the  top  of  the  ^able,  with  maybe  his  arm  around  the 
bride  herself,  or  the  baby  on  his  lap,  a smoking  jug  of  punch  be- 
fore him,  and  as  much  kindness  in  his  eyes  as  would  make  the 
fortunes  of  twenty  hypocrites  if  they  had  it  among  them.  And 
then  he  was  so  good  to  the  poor;  the  Priory  was  always  full  of 
ould  men  and  oukl  women,  sitting  around  the  big  fire  in  the 
kitchen,  so  that  the  cook  could  hardly  get  near  it.  There  they 
were  eating  their  meals  and  burning  their  shins,  till  they  were 
speckled  like  a trout’s  back,  and  grumbling  all  the  time;  but 
Father  Dwyer  liked  them,  and  he  would  have  them. 


CHAELKS  OATALLEV. 


81 


«« ‘ Where  have  they  to  go,’  he’d  say,  * av  it  wasn’t  tome?  give 
Molly  Kinshela  a lock  of  that  bacon.  Tim,  it’s  a corwld  morn- 
ing; will  ye  have  a taste  of  the  “ dew  ?”  ’ 

“ Ah  that’s  the  way  he’d  spake  to  them;  but  sure  goodness  is 
no  warren t for  living,  any  more  than  devilment;  and  so  he  got 
cowld  in  his  feet  at  a station,  and  he  rode  home  in  the  heavy 
snow  without  his  big  coat — for  he  gave  it  away  to  a blind  man 
on  the  road — and  in  three  days  he  was  dead. 

“ I see  you’re  getting  impatient;  so  Til  not  stop  to  say  what 
grief  was  in  the  parish  when  it  was  known  but  troth  there  never 
was  seen  the  like  before;  not  a Cray ture  would  lift  a spade  for 
two  days,  and  there  was  more  whisky  sold  in  that  time  than  at 
the  whole  spring  fair.  We^L  on  the  third  day,  the  funeral  set 
out,  and  never  was  the  equm  of  it  in  them  parts;  first,  there  was 
my  father;  he  came  special  from  Cork  with  the  six  horses  all  in 
new  black,  and  plumes  like  little  poplar  trees;  then  came 
Father  Dwyer,  followed  by  the  two  coadjutors  in  iDeautiful  sur- 
plices, walking  bare-headed,  with  the  little  boys  of  the  Friory 
school,  two  and  two.” 

“ Well,  Mike,  I’m  sure  it  was  very  fine;  but  for  Heaven’s  sake 
spare  me  all  these  descriptions,  and  get  on  to  the  ghost.” 

‘‘Faith,  your  honor’s  in  a great  hurry  for  the  ghost;  maybe 
you  won’t  like  him  when  ye  have  him,  but  I’ll  go  faster  if  you 
please.  Well,  Father  Dwyer  ye  see  was  born  at  Aghan-lish,  of 
an  ould  family,  and  he  left  it  in  his  will  that  he  was  to  be  buried 
in  the  family  vault;  and  as  Aghan-lish  was  eighteen  miles  up 
the  mountains,  it  was  getting  late  when  they  drew  near.  By 
that  time  the  great  procession  was  all  broke  up  and  gone  home. 
The  coadjutors  stopped  to  dine  at  the  ‘ Blue  Bellows  ’ at  the 
cross-roads;  the  little  boys  took  to  pelting  snow- balls;  there  was 
a fight  or  two  on  the  way  besides;  and,  in  fact,  except  an  ould 
deaf  fellow  that  my  father  took  to  mind  the  horses,  he  was  quite 
alone.  Not  that  he  minded  that  same;  for  when  the  crowd  was 
gone  my  father  began  to  sing  a droll  song,  and  tould  the  deaf 
chap  that  it  was  a lamentation.  At  last  they  came  in  sight  of 
Aghan-lish.  It  was  a lonesome,  melancholy-looking  place,  with 
nothing  near  it  except  two  or  three  old  fir  trees,  and  a small 
slated  house  with  one  window,  where  the  sexton  lived,  and  even 
that  same  was  shut  up,  and  a padlock  on  the  door.  Well,  my 
father  was  not  overmuch  pleased  at  the  look  of  matters;  but,  as 
he  was  never  hard  put  to  what  to  do,  he  managed  to  get  the 
coffin  into  the  vestry;  and  then,  when  he  unharnessed  the  horses, 
he  sent  the  deaf  fellow  with  them  down  to  the  village  to  tell  the 
priest  that  the  corpse  was  there,  and  to  come  up  early  in  the 
morning  and  perform  mass.  The  next  thing  to  do  was  to  make 
himself  comfortable  for  the  night ; and  then  he  made  a roaring 
fire  on  the  old  hearth — for  there  was  plenty  of  bog  fir  there — 
closed  the  windows  with  the  black  cloaks,  and  wrapping  two 
round  himself,  he  sat  down  to  cook  a little  supper  he  brought 
with  him  in  case  of  need. 

“Well,  you  may  think  it  was  melancholy  enough  to  pass  the 
night  up  there  alone,  with  a corpse,  in  an  old  ruined  church  in 
the  middle  of  the  mountains,  the  wind  howling  about  on  every 


S2 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


side,  and  the  snow-drift  beating  against  the  walls;  but,  as  the  fire 
burned  brightly,  and  the  little  plate  of  rashers  and  eggs  smoked 
temptingly  before  him,  my  father  mixed  a jug  of  the  strong- 
est punch,  and  sat  down  as  happy  as  a king.  As  long  as  he  was 
eating  away,  he  had  no  time  to  be  thinking  of  anything  else; 
but,  when  all  was  done,  and  he  looked  about  him,  he  began  to 
feel  very  low  and  melancholy  in  his  heart.  There  was  the  great 
black  coffin  on  three  chairs  in  one  corner;  and  then  the  mourn- 
ing cloaks  that  he  had  stuck  up  against  the  windows  moved 
backward  and  forward  like  living  things;  and  outside  the  wild 
cry  of  the  plover  as  he  flew  past,  and  the  night-owl  sitting  in  a 
nook  of  the  old  church.  ‘ I wish  it  was  morning,  anyhow,’  said 
my  father;  ‘ for  this  is  a lonesome  ]^ace  to  be  in;  and,  faix,  he’ll 
be  a cunning  fellow  that  catches  me  passing  the  night  this  way 
again.’  Now  there  was  one  thing  distressed  him  most  of  all: 
My  father  used  always  to  make  fun  of  the  ghosts  and  spirits  the 
neighbors  would  tell  of,  pretending  there  was  no  such  thing; 
and  now  the  thought  came  to  him,  ‘Maybe  they’ll  revenge 
themselves  on  me  to-night,  when  they  have  me  up  here  alone;’ 
and  with  that  he  made  another  jug  stronger  than  the  first,  and 
tried  to  remember  a few  prayers  in  case  of  need;  but  somehow 
his  mind  was  not  too  clear,  and  he  said  afterward  he  was 
always  mixing  up  old  songs  and  toasts  with  the  prayers,  and 
when  he  thought  he  had  just  got  hold  of  a beautiful  psalm,  it 
would  turn  out  to  be  ‘ Tatter  Jack  Walsh,’  or  ‘ Limping  James,’ 
or  something  like  that.  The  storm,  meanwhile,  was  rising 
every  moment,  and  parts  of  the  old  abbey  were  falling,  as  the 
wind  shook  the  ruin;  and  my  father  s spirits,  notwithstanding 
the  punch,  were  lower  than  ever. 

“ ‘ I made  it  too  weak,’  said  he,  as  he  set  to  work  on  a new’ 
jorum;  and  troth  this  time  that  was  not  the  fault  of  it,  for  the 
first  sup  nearly  choked  him. 

“‘Ah!’  said  he  now,  ‘I  knew  what  it  was;  this  is  like  the 
thing;  and  Mr.  Free,  you  are  beginning  to  feel  easy  and  comfort- 
able; pass  the  jug;  your  very  good  health  and  song.  I’m  a lit- 
tle hoarse,  it’s  true,  but  if  the  company  will  excuse ’ 

“ And  then  he  began  knocking  on  the  table  with  his  knuckles, 
as  if  there  was  a room  full  of  people  asking  him  to  sing.  In 
short,  my  father  was  drunk  as  a fiddler;  the  last  brew  finished 
him;  and  he  began  roaring  away  all  kinds  of  droll  songs,  and 
telling  all  manner  of  stories,  as  if  he  was  at  a great  party. 

“ While  he  was  capering  this  way  about  the  room,  he  knocked 
down  his  hat,  and  with  it  a pack  of  cards  he  put  into  it  before 
leaving  home,  for  he  was  mighty  fond  of  a game. 

“ ‘ Will  ye  take  a hand,  Mr.  Free?’  said  he,  as  he  gathered 
them  up  and  sat  down  beside  the  fire. 

“ ‘I’m  convanient,’  said  he,  and  began  dealing  out  as  if  there 
was  a partner  fornenst  him. 

“ When  my  father  used  to  get  this  far  in  the  story,  he  became 
very  confused.  He  says,  that  once  or  twice  he  mistook  the 
liquor,  and  took  a pull  at  the  bottle  of  potteen  instead  of  the 
punch;  and  the  last  thing  he  remembers  was  asking  poor  Father 


■■■ 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY,  33 

Dwyer  if  he  .would  draw  near  to  the  fire,  and  not  be  lying  there 
near  the  door. 

“With  that  he  slipped  down  on  the  ground  and  fell  fast 
asleep.  How  long  he  lay  that  way  he  could  never  tell.  When  he 
awoke  and  looked  up,  his  hair  nearly  stood  on  end  with  fright. 
What  do  you  think  he  seen  fornenst  him,  sitting  at  the  other 
side  of  the  fire,  but  Father  Dwyer  himself;  there  he  was,  divil  a 
lie  in  it,  wrapped  up  in  one  of  the  mourning  cloaks,  trying  to 
warm  his  hands  at  the  fire. 

“ ‘ Salve  hoc  nomine  patrir  said  my  father,  crossing  himself; 
‘ av  it’s  your  ghost,  God  presarve  me!’ 

“‘Good  evening  t’ye,  Mr.  Free,’  said  the  ghost;  ‘and  av  I 
might  be  bould,  what’s  in  the  jug  ?’ — for  ye  see  my  father  had  it 
under  his  arm  fast,  and  never  let  it  go  when  he  was  asleep. 

“ ‘ Pater  noster  qui  es  in — -potteen,  sir,’  said  my  father,  for 
the  ghost  didn’t  look  pleased  at  his  talking  Latin. 

“ ‘ Ye  might^have  the  politeness  to  ax  if  one  had  a mouth  on 
him,’  then  says"  the  ghost. 

“ ‘ Sure,  I didn’t  think  the  like  of  you  would  taste  sperits.’ 

“ ‘ Try  me,’  said  the  ghost;  and  with  that  he  filled  out  a glass, 
and  tossed  it  off  like  a Christian. 

“ ‘ Beamish!'  says  the  ghost,  smacking  his  lips. 

“ ‘ The  same,’  says  my  father;  ‘and  sure  what’s  happened  you 
has  not  spoilt  your  taste.’ 

“ ‘If  you’d  mix  a little  hot,’  says  the  ghost,  ‘I’m  thinking  it 
would  be  better;  the  night  is  mighty  sevare.’ 

“ ‘ Anything  that  your  reverance  pleases,’  says  my  father,  as 
he  began  to  blow  up  a good  fire  to  boil  the  water. 

“ ‘ And  what  news  is  stirring?’  says  the  ghost. 

“ ‘ Devil  a word,  your  reverance;  your  own  funeral  was  the 
only  thing  doing  last  week;  times  is  bad;  except  the  measles, 
there’s  nothing  in  our  jjarts.’ 

“ ‘ And  we’re  quite  dead  hereabouts,  too,’  says  the  ghost. 

“ ‘ There’s  some  of  us  so,  anyhow,’  says  my  father,  with  a 
sly  look.  ‘ Taste  that,  your  reverance.’ 

“ ‘Pleasant  and  refreshing,’  says  the  ghost;  ‘and  now,  Mr. 
Free,  what  do  you  say  to  a little  spoil  five,  or  beggar  my  neigh- 
boA?’ 

“ ‘ What  will  we  play  for?’  says  my  father;  for  a thought  just 
struck  him — ‘ maybe  it’s  some  trick  of  the  devil  to  catch  my 
soul.’ 

“ ‘ A pint  of  Beamish,’  says  the  ghost. 

“ ‘Done,’  says  my  father;  ‘cut  for  deal;  the  ace  of  clubs; 
you  have  it.’ 

“ Now  the  whole  time  the  ghost  was  dealing  the  cards,  my 
father  never  took  his  eyes  off  him,  fo¥  he  wasn’t  quite  aisy  in 
his  mind  at  all;  but  when  he  saw  him  turn  up  the  trump,  and 
take  a strong  drink  afterward,  he  got  more  at  ease,  and  began 
the  game. 

“ How  long  they  played  it  was  never  rightly  known;  but  one 
thing  is  sure,  they  drank  a cruel  deal  of  spirits;  three  quart- 
bottles  my  father  brought  with  him  were  all  finished,  and  by 
that  time  his  brain  was  so  confused  with  the  liquor,  and  all  he 


84  QH ARLES  a MALLET. 

lost— for  Somehow  he  never  won  a game — that  he  was  getting 
very  quarrelsome. 

“ ‘ You  have  your  own  luck  of  it>’  says  he,  at  last. 

“ ‘ True  for  you;  and,  besides,  w©  play  a great  deal  where  I 
tome  from.’ 

“‘I’ve  heard  so,’ says  my  father.  ‘I  lead  the  knave,  sir, 
ipades;  bad  cess  to  it,  lost  again.’ 

“ Now  it  was  really  very  distressing;  for  by  this  time,  though 
they  only  began  for  a pint  of  Beamish,  my  father  went  on  bet- 
ting till*  he  lost  the  hearse  and  all  the  six  horses,  mourning 
cloaks,  plumes,  and  everything. 

“ ‘ Are  you  tired,  Mr.  Free?  may  be  you’d  like  to  stop?’ 

“ ‘ Stop!  faith,  it’s  a nice  time  to  stop;  of  course  not.’ 

“ ‘ Well,  what  will  ye  play  for  now  ?’ 

‘‘The  wsiy  he  said  these  words  brought  a trembling  all 
over  my  father,  and  his  blood  curdled  in  his  heart.  ‘ Oh, 
murther!’  says  he  to  himself,  ‘ it's  my  sowl  he  is  wanting  all  the 
time.’ 

“ ‘ I’ve  mighty  little  left,’  says  my  father,  looking  at  him  keen- 
ly, while  he  kept  shuffling  the  cards  quick  as  lightning. 

“ ‘ Mighty  little;  no  matter,  we’ll  give  you  plenty  of  time  to 
pay,  and  if  you  can’t  do  it,  it  shall  never  trouble  you  as  long  as 
you  live.’ 

“‘Oh,  you  murthering  devil!’  says  my  father,  flying  at 
him  with  a spade  that  he  had  behind  his  chair,  ‘ I’ve  found  you 
out.’ 

“With  one  blow  he  knocked  him  down;  and  now  a terrible 
fight  began,  for  the  ghost  was  very  strong  too;  but  my  father’s 
blood  was  up,  and  he’d  have  faced  the  devil  himself  then.  They 
rolled  over  each  other  several  times,  the  broken  bottles  cutting 
them  to  pieces,  and  the  chairs  and  tables  crashing  under  them. 
At  last  the  ghost  took  the  bottle  that  lay  on  the  hearth,  and  lev- 
eled my  father  to  the  ground  with  one  blow;  down  he  fell,,  and 
the  bottle  and  the  whisky  were  both  dashed  into  the  fire;  that 
was  the  end  of  it,  for  the  ghost  disappeared  that  moment  in 
a blue  fiame  that  nearly  set  fire  to  my  father  as  he  lay  on  the 
fioor. 

“ Och!  it  was  a cruel  sight  to  see  him  next  morning,  with  his 
cheek  cut  open,  and  his  hands  all  bloody,  lyiug  there  by  him- 
self; all  the  broken  glass  and  the  cards  all  round  him;  the  coffln 
too  was  knocked  down  off  the  chair — may  be  the  ghost  had  trou- 
ble getting  into  it.  However  that  was,  the  funeral  was  put  off 
for  a day;  for  my  father  couldn’t  speak;  and,  as  for  the  sexton, 
it  was  a queer  thing,  but  when  they  came  to  call  him  in  the 
morning,  he  had  two  black  eyes,  and  a gash  over  his  ear,  and  he 
never  knew  how  he  got  them.  It  was  easy  enough  to  know  the 
ghost  did  it;  but  my  father  kept  the  secret,  and  never  told  it  to 
any  man,  woman  or  child  in  them  parts.” 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


85 


CHAPTER  LXXVL 

LISBON. 

I HAVE  little  power  to  trace  the  events  which  occupied  the  suc- 
ceeding three  weeks  of  my  history.  The  lingering  fever  which 
attended  my  wound  detained  me  during  that  time  at  the  chateau; 
and  when  at  last  I did  reach  Lisbon,  the  winter  was  already  be- 
ginning, and  it  was  upon  a cold  raw  evening  that  I once  more 
took  possession  of  my  old  quarters  at  the  Quai  de  Soderi. 

My  eagerness  and  anxiety  to  learn  something  of  the  campaign 
was  ever  uppermost,  and  no  sooner  had  I reached  my  destination 
than  I dispatched  Mike  to  the  Quartermaster’s  oflSce  to  pick  up 
some  news,  and  hear  which  of  my  friends  and  brother  officer^ 
were  then  at  Lisbon.  I was  sitting  in  a state  of  nervous  impa- 
tience, watching  for  his  return,  when  at  length  I heard  foot- 
steps approaching  my  room,  and  the  next  moment  Mike’s  voice, 
saying:  “ The  ould  room,  sir,  where  he  was  before.”  The  door 
suddenly  opened,  and  my  friend  Power  stood  before  me. 

“Charley,  my  boy,” — “Fred,  my  fine  fellow,”  was  all  either 
could  say  for  some  minutes.  Upon  my  part,  the  recollection  of 
his  bold  and  manly  bearing  in  my  behalf  choked  all  utterance; 
while,  upon  his,  my  haggard  cheek  and  worn  look  produced  an 
effect  so  sudden  and  unexpected  that  he  became  speechless. 

In  a few  minutes,  howevei*,  we  both  rallied,  and  opened  our 
store  of  mutual  remembrances  since  we  parted.  My  career  I 
found  he  was  perfectly  acquainted  with,  and  his  consisted  of 
nothing  but  one  unceasing  round  of  gay ety  and  pleasure.  Lisbon 
had  been  delightful  during  the  summer;  parties  to  Cintra,  ex- 
cursions through  the  surrounding  country,  were  of  daily  occur- 
rence; and,  as  my  friend  was  a favorite  everywhere,  his  life  was 
one  of  continued  amusement. 

“ Do  you  know,  Charley,  had  it  been  any  other  man  than  your- 
self, I should  not  have  spared  him;  for  I have  fallen  head  over 
ears  in  love  with  your  little  dark-eyed  Portuguese.” 

“ Ah!  Donna  Inez,  you  mean  ? ’ 

“ Yes,  it  is  her  I mean,  and  you  need  not  affect  such  an  air  of 
uncommon  nonchalance.  She’s  the  loveliest  girl  in  Lisbon,  and 
with  a fortune  to  pay  all  the  mortgages  in  Connemara.” 

“ Oh!  faith,  I admire  her  amazingly,  but  as  I never  fiatteied 
myself  upon  any  preference ” 

“ Come,  come,  Charley,  no  concealment,  my  old  fellow;  every 
one  knows  the  thing’s  settled.  Your  old  friend  Sir  George  Dash  • 
wood  told  me  yesterday ” 

“ Yesterday!  Why  is  he  here  at  Lisbon  ?” 

“ To  be  sure  he  is;  didn’t  I tell  you  that  before  ? confound  it, 
what  a head  I have!  Why,  man,  he’s  come  out  as  Deputy 
Adjutant-General;  but  for  him  I sliould  not  liave  got  renewed 
leave.” 

“ And  Miss  Dash  wood,  is  she  here  ?” 

“ Yes,  she  came  with  him.  By  Jove,  liow  handsome  she  is, 
quite  a different  style  of  thing  from  our  dark  friend;  but,  to  my 
thinking,  even  handsomer.  Hammersly  seems  of  my  opiniim, 
too  ” 


36 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 

How!  is  Hammersly  at  Lisbon  ?”  ‘ 

“ On  the  staff  here.  But,  confound  it,  what  makes  you  so 
red,  you  have  no  ill-feeling  toward  him  now.  I know  he^speaks 
most  warmly  of  you;  no  later  than  last  night  at  Sir  George’s ” 

What  Power  was  about  to  add  I know  not,  for  I sprung  from 
my  chair  with  a sudden  start  and  walked  to  the  window  to  con- 
ceal my  agitation  from  him. 

And  so,”  said  I,  at  length  regaining  my  composure  in  some 
measure,  “ Sir  George  also  spoke  of  my  name  in  connection  with 
the  Senora’s  ?” 

‘‘To  be  sure  he  did.  All  Lisbon  does.  Why,  what  can  you 
mean?  But  I see,  my  dear  boy,  your  nerves  are  not  of  the 
^strongest;  and  we’ve  been  talking  far  too  long.  Come  now, 
Charley,  I’ll  say  good-night.  I’ll  be  wuth  you  at  breakfast  to- 
morrow, and  tell  you  all  the  gossij);  meanwhile,  promise  me  to 
get  quietly  to  bed,  and  so  good-night.” 

Such  was  the  conflicting  state  of  feeling  I suffered  from,  that 
I made  no  effort  to  detain  Power.  I longed  to  be  once  more 
alone,  to  think — calmly,  if  I could,  over  the  position  I stood  in, 
and  to  resolve  upon  my  plans  for  the  future. 

My  love  for  Lucy  Dashwood  had  been  long  rather  a devotion 
than  a hope.  My  earliest  dawn  of  manly  ambition  was  asso- 
ciated with  the  first  hour  I met  her.  She  it  was  who  first  touched 
my  boyish  heart,  and  suggested  a sense  of  chivalrous  ardor 
within  me;  and,  even  though  lost  to  me  forever,  I could  still 
regard  her  as  the  mainspring  of  my  actions,  and  dwell  upon  my 
passion  as  the  thing  that  hallowed  every  enterprise  of  my  life. 

In  a word,  my  love,  how^ever  little  it  might  reach  her  heart, 
was  everything  to  mine.  It  was  the  worship  of  the  devotee  to 
his  protecting  saint.  It  was  the  faith  that  made  me  rise  above 
misfortune  and  mishap,  and  led  me  onward;  and  in  this  way  I 
could  have  borne  anything,  everything,  rather  than  the  imputa- 
tion of  fickleness. 

Lucy  might  not — nay,  I felt  she  did  not — love  me.  It  was 
possible  that  some  other  was  preferred  before  me;  but  to  doubt 
my  own  affection,  to  suspect  my  own  truth,  was  to  destroy  all 
the  charm  of  my  existence,  and  to  extinguish  within  me  forever 
the  enthusiasm  that  made  me  a hero  to  my  own  heart. 

It  may  seem  but  poor  philosophy;  but,  alas!  how  many  of  our 
happiest,  how  many  of  our  brightest  thoughts  here  are  but  de- 
lusions like  this!  The  dayspring  of  youth  gilds  the  tops  of  the 
distant  mountains  before  us,  and  many  a weary  day  through 
life,  when  clouds  and  storms  are  thickening  around  us,  we  live 
upon  the  mere  memory  of  the  past.  Some  fast-flitting  prospect 
of  a bright  future,  some  passing  glimpses  of  a sunlit  valley, 
tinges  all  our  after  years. 

It  is  true  that  he  will  suffer  fewer  disappointments,  he  will 
incur  fewer  of  the  mishaps  of  the  world,  who  indulges  in  no 
fancies  such  as  these;  but  equally  true  is  it,  that  he  will  taste 
none  of  that  exuberant  happiness  which  is  that  man’s  portion 
who  weaves  out  a story  of  his  life,  and  who,  in  connecting  the 
promise  of  early  years  with  the  performance  of  later,  will  seel^ 
to  fulfill  fate  and  destiny. 


CHARLES  CMALLEY, 


37 


Weaving  such  fancies,  I fell  sound  asleep,  nor  woke  before  the 
stir  and  bustle  of  the  great  city  aroused  me.  Power,  I found, 
had  been  twice  at  my  quarters  that  morning,  but,  fearing  to 
disturb  me,  had  merely  left  a few  lines  to  say  that,  as  he  should 
be  engaged  on  service  during  the  day,  we  could  not  meet  before 
the  evening.  There  were  certain  preliminaries  requisite,  re- 
garding my  leave  which  demanded  my  appearing  before  a board 
of  medical  officers,  and  I immediately  set  about  dressing,  re- 
solving that,  as  soon  as  they  were  completed,  I should,  if  per- 
mitted, retire  to  one  of  the  small  cottages  on  the  opposite  bank 
of  the  Tagus,  there  to  remain  until  my  restored  health  allowed 
me  to  rejoin  my  regiment. 

I dreaded  meeting  the  Dashwoods.  I anticipated  with  a heavy 
heart  how  effectually  one  passing  interview  would  destroy  all 
my  day-dreams  of  happiness,  and  I preferred  anything  to  the 
sad  conviction  of  hopelessness  such  a meeting  must  lead  to. 

While  I thus  balanced  with  myself  how  to  proceed,  a gentle 
step  came  to  the  door,  and,  as  it  opened  slowly,  a servant  in  a 
dark  livery  entered. 

“Mr.  O’Malley,  sir?” 

“Yes,”  said  I,  wondering  to  whom  my  arrival  could-  be  thus 
early  known, 

“Sir  George  Dash  wood  requests  you  will  step  over  to  him  as 
soon  as  you  go  out,”  continued  the  man;  “ he  is  so  engaged  that 
he  cannot  leave  home,  but  is  most  desirous  to  see  you.” 

“ It  is  not  far  from  here  ?” 

“ No,  sir;  scarcely  five  minutes’  walk.” 

“ Well,  then,  if  you  will  show  me  the  way.  I’ll  follow  you.” 

I cast  one  passing  glance  at  myself  to  see  that  all  was  right 
about  my  costume,  and  sallied  forth. 

In  the  middle  of  the  Black  Horse  square,  at  the  door  of  a large 
stone -fronted  building,  a group  of  military  men  were  assembled, 
chatting  and  laughing  away  together;  some  reading  the  late 
arrived  English  papers;  others  lounging  upon  the  stone 
parapet,  carelessly  puffing  their  cigars.  None  of  the  faces  were 
known  to  me;  so,  threading  my  way  through  the  crowd,  I reached 
the  steps.  Just  as  I did  so,  a half-muttered  whisper  met  my  ear; 

“ Who  did  you  say  ?” 

“O’Malley,  the  young IrishrAan,  who  behaved  so  gallantly  at 
Douro.” 

The  blood  rushed  hotly  to  my  cheek;  .my  heart  bounded  with 
exultation;  my  step,  infirm  and  tottering  but  a moment  before, 
became  fixed  and  steady,  and  I felt  a thrill  of  proud  enthusiasm 
playing  through  my  veins.  How  little  did  the  speaker  of  these 
few  and  random  word:;  know  what  courage  he  had  given  to  a 
drooping  heart,  what  renewed  energy  to  a breaking  spirit:  The 
voice  of  praise,  too,  coming  from  those  to  whom  we  had  thought 
ourselves  unknown,  has  a magic  about  it  that  must  be  felt  to  be 
understood.  So  it  happened,  that  in  a few  seconds  a revolution 
had  taken  place  in  all  my  thoughts  and  feelings,  and  I,  who  had 
left  my  quarters  dispirited  and  depressed,  now  walked  confi- 
dently and  proudly  forward. 


38 


CHARLES  CMALLEY.  » 


Mr.  O’Malley,  sir,”  said  the  servant  to  the  officer  in  waiting, 
as  we  entered  the  antechamber. 

“ Ah!  Mr.  O’Malley,”  said  the  aid-de-camp,  in  his  blandest  ac- 
cent, “ I hope  you’re  better.  Sir  George  is  most  anxious  to  see 
you;  he  is  at  present  engaged  with  the  staff ” 

A bell  rung  at  the  moment,  and  cut  short  the  sentence;  he 
flew  to  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  and  returning  in  an  instant, 
said: 

“ Will  you  follow  me?  This  way,  if  you  please.” 

The  room  was  crowded  with  general  officers  and  aides-de-camp, 
so  that  fora  second  or  two  I could  not  distinguish  the  parties; 
but  no  sooner  was  my  name  announced,  than  Sir  George  l3ash- 
wood,  forcing  his  way  through,  rushed  forward  to  meet  me. 

“ O’Malley,  my  brave  fellow,  delighted  to  shake  your  hand 
again.  How  much  grown  you  are;  twice  the  man  I knew  you — 
and  the  arm,  too,  is  it  getting  on  well  ?” 

Scarcely  .giving  me  a moment  to  reply,  and  still  holding  my 
hand  tightly  in  his  grasp,  he  introduced  me  on  every  side. 

“ My  young  Irish  friend,  Sir  Edward,  the  man  of  the  Douro. 
My  Lord,  allow  me  to  present  Lieutenant  O’Malley  of  the  Four- 
teenth.” 

A very  dashing  thing  that  of  yours,  sir,  at  Ciudad  Rodrigo. 

‘‘A  very  senseless  one,  I fear,  my  lord.” 

‘‘  No,  no,  I don’t  agree  with  you  at  all,  even  when  no  great  re- 
sults follow,  the  morale  of  an  army  benefits  by  acts  of  daring.” 

A running  fire  of  kind  and  civil  speeches  poured  in  on  me 
from  all  quarters;  and,  amid  all  that  crowd  of  bronzed  and 
war-worn  veterans,  I felt  myself  the  lion  of  the  moment.  Craw- 
ford, it  appeared,  had  spoken  most  handsomely  of  my  name, 
and  I was  thus  made  known  to  many  of  those  whose  own  repu- 
tations weye  then  extending  over  Europe. 

In  this  happy  trance  of  excited  pleasure  I passed  the  morning. 
All  the  military  chit-chat  of  the  day  around  me,  treated  as  an 
equal  by  the  greatest  and  most  distinguished,  I heard  all  the  con- 
fidential opinions  upon  the  campaign  and  its  leaders;  and  in 
that  most]  entrancing  of  [all  ffiatteries — the  easy  tone  of  com- 
panionship of  our  elders  and  betters — foi'got  all  my  griefs,  and 
half  believed  I was  destined  for  great  things. 

Fearing  at  length  that  I had  prolonged  my  visit  too  far,  I ap- 
proached Sir  George  to  take  my  leave,  when,  drawing  my  arm 
within  his,  he  retired  toward  one  of  the  windows. 

“ A word,  O’Malley;  before  you  go.  I’ve  arranged  a little  plan 
for  you;  mind,  I shall  insist  upon  obedience.  They’ll  make  some 
difficulty  about  your  remaining  here,  so  that  I have  appointed 
you  one  of  our  extra  aides-de-camp;  that  will  free  you  from  all 
trouble,  and  I shall  not  be  very  exacting  in  my  demands  upon 
you.  You  must,  however,  commence  you  duties  to-day,  and,  as 
we  dine  at  seven  precisely,  I shall  expect  you.  I am  aware  of 
your  wish  to  stay  in  Lisbon,  my  boy;  and,  if  all  I hear  be  true, 
congratulate  you  sincerely;  but  more  of  this  another  time,  and 
so  good-bye.”  So  saying,  he  shook  my  hand  once  more  warmly, 
and,  without  well  feeling  how  or  why,  I found  myself  in  the 
street. 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


39 


The  last  few  words  Sir  George  had  spoken  threw  a gloom  over 
all  my  thoughts.  I saw  at  once  that  the  report  Power  had  allud' 
ed  to  had  gained  currency  at  Lisbon.  Sir  George  believed  it, 
doubtless  Lucy,  too;  and,  forgetting  in  an  instant  all  the  emula- 
tive ardor  that  so  lately  stirred  my  heart,  1 took  a path  be- 
side the  river,  and  sauntered  slowly  along,  lost  in  my  reflections. 

I had  walked  for  above  an  hour  before  paying  any  attention 
to  the  path  I followed.  Mechanically,  as  it  were,  retreating 
from  the  noise  and  tumult  of  the  city,  I wandered  toward  the 
country.  My  thoughts  fixed  but  upon  one  theme,  I had  neither 
ears  nor  eyes  for  aught  around  me;  the  great  difiiculty  of  my 
present  position  now  appearing  to  me  in  this  light — my  attach- 
ment to  Lucy  Dashwood,  unrequited  and  unreturned  as  I felt 
it,  did  not  permit  of  my  rebutting  any  report  which  might  have 
reached  her  concerning  Donna  Inez.  I liad  no  right,  no  claim 
to  suppose  her  sufficiently  interested  about  me'to  listen  to  such 
an  explanation,  had  I even  the  opportunity  to  make  it.  One 
thing  was  clear  to  me,  all  my  hopes  had  ended  in  that  quarter; 
and,  as  this  conclusion  sunk  into  my  mind,  a species  of  dogged 
resolution  to  brave  my  fortune  crept  upon  me,  which  only 
waited  the  first  moment  of  my  meeting  her,  to  overthrow  and 
destroy  forever. 

Meanwhile  I walked  on;  now  rapidly,  in  some  momentary 
rush  of  passionate  excitement;  now  slowly,  as  some  depressing 
and  gloomy  notion  succeeded;  when  suddenly  my  path  was  ar- 
rested by  a long  file  of  bullock  carts  which  blocked  up  the  way. 
Some  chance  squabble  had  arisen  among  the  drivers,  and,  to 
avoid  the  crowd  and  collision,  I turned  into  a gateway  which 
opened  beside  me,  and  soon  found  myself  in  a lawn  handsomely 
planted,  and  adorned  with  flowering  shrubs  and  ornamental 
trees. 

In  the  half  dreamy  state  my  musings  had  brought  me  to,  I 
struggled  to  recollect  why  the  aspect  of  the  place  did  not  seem 
altogether  new.  My  thoughts  were,  however,  far  away;  now 
blending  some  memory  of  my  distant  home  with  scenes  of  battle 
and  bloodshed,  or  resting  upon  my  first  interview  with  her 
whose  chance  word,  carelessly  and  lightly  spoken,  had  written 
the  story  of  my  life.  From  this  reverie  I was  rudely  awakened 
by  a rustling  noise  in  the  trees  behind  me,  and  before  I could 
turn  my  head,  the  two  forepaws  of  a large  stag-hound  wwe 
planted  upon  my  shoulders,  while  the  open  mouth  and  panting 
tongue  were  close  beside  my  face.  My  day-dream  was  dispelled 
quick  as  lightning;  it  was  Juan  himself,  the  favorite  dog  of  the 
senora,  who  gave  this  rude  w^elcome,  and  who  now,  by  a thou- 
sand wild  gestures  and  bounding  caresses,  seemed  to  do  the  hon- 
ors of  his  house.  There  was  something  so  like  home  in  these 
joyful  greetings,  that  I yielded  myself  at  once  his  prisoner,  and 
followed,  or  rather  was  accompanied  by  him  toward  the  villa. 

Of  course,  sooner  or  later,  I should  have  called  upon  my  kind 
friends;  then  why  not  now,  when  chance  had  already  brought 
me  so  near?  Besides,  if  I held  to  my  resolution,  which  I 
meant  to  do — of  retiring  to  some  quiet  and  sequestered  cot- 
tage till  my  health  was  restored — the  opportunity  might  not 


40 


CHARLES  OMALLEY, 


readily  present  itself  again.  This  line  of  argument  perfectly 
satisfied  my  reason,  while  a strong  feeling  of  something  like 
curiosity  piqued  me  to  proceed,  and  before  many  minutes  elapsed 
I reached  the  house.  The  door,  as  usual,  lay  wide  open,  and 
the  ample  hall,  furnished  like  a sitting-room,  had  its  customary 
litter  of  books,  music  and  flowers  scattered  upon  the  tables.  My 
friend,  Juan,  however,  suffered  me  not  to  linger  here,  but  rush- 
ing furiously  at  a door  before  me,  began  a vigorous  attack  for 
admittance. 

As  I knew  this  to  be  the  drawing-room,  I opened  the  door  and 
walked  in,  but  no  one  was  to  be  seen;  a half-open  book  lay 
upon  an  ottoman,  and  a fan,  which  I recognized  as  an  old  ac- 
quaintance was  beside  it,  but  the  owner  was  absent. 

I sat  down,  resolved  to  wait  patiently  for  her  coming,  without 
any  announcement  of  my  being  there.  I was  not  sorry,  indeed, 
to  have  some  moments  to  collect  my  thoughts  and  restore  my 
erring  faculties  to  something  like  order. 

As  I looked  about  the  room,  it  seemed  as  if  I had  been  there 
but  yesterday;  the  folding-doors  lay  open  to  the  garden  just  as  I 
had  seen  them  last;  and,  save  that  the  flowers  seemed  fewer, 
and  those  which  remaine^d  of  a darker  and  more  somber  tint,  all 
seemed  unchanged;  there  lay  the  guitar,  to  whose  thrilling 
chords  my  heart  had  bounded;  there,  the  drawing  over  which  I 
had  bent  in  admiring  pleasure,  suggesting  some  tints  of  light 
or  shadow,  as  the  fairy  fingers  traced  them;  every  chair  was 
known  to  me,  and  I greeted  them  as  things  I cared  for. 

While  thus  I scanned  each  object  around  me,  I was  struck  by 
a little  china  vase,  which,  unlike  its  other  brethren,  contained 
a bouquet  of  dead  and  faded  flowers;  the  blood  rushed  to  my 
cheek;  I started  up;  it  was  on  ^ I had  myself  presented  to  her 
the  day  before  we  parted.  It  was  in  that  same  vase  I placed  it; 
the  very  table,  too,  stood  in  the  same  position  beside  that  narrow 
window.  What  a rush  of  thoughts  came  pouring  on  me!  and  oh! 
shall  I confess  it?  how  deeply  did  such  a mute  testimony  of  re- 
membrance speak  to  my  heart,  at  the  moment  that  I felt  myself 
unloved  and  uncared-for  by  another!  I v/alked  hurriedly  up  and 
down;  a maze  of  conflicting  resolves  combating  in  my  mind, 
while  one  thought  ever  recurred — “ would  that  I had  not  come 
here;’’  and  yet,  after  all,  it  may  mean  nothing;  some  piece  of 
passing  coquetry,  which  she  will  be  the  very  first  to  laugh  at.  I 
remember  how  she  spoke  of  poor  Howard;  what  folly  to  take  it 
otherwise;  be  it  so  then,”  said  I,  half  aloud;  and  now  for  my 
part  of  the  game;  and  with  this  I took  from  my  helmet  the  light 
blue  scarf  she  had  given  me  the  morning  we  parted,  and  throw- 
ing it  over  my  shoulder,  prepared  to  perform  my  part  in  what  I 
had  fully  persuaded  myself  to  be  a comedy.  The  time,  however, 
passed  on,  and  she  came  not;  a thousand  high-flown  Spanish 
phrases  had  time  to  be  conned  over  again  and  again  by  me,  and 
1 had  abundant  leisure  to  enact  my  coming  part;  but  still  the 
curtain  did  not  rise  as  the  day  w^as  wearing.  I resolved  at  last 
to  write  a few  lines,  expressive  of  my  regret  at  not  meeting  the 
senora,  and  promising  myself  an  early  opportunity  of  paying  my 
respects  under  more  fortunate  circumstances.  I sat  down  ac« 


CEABLES  O'MALLEY. 


41 


cordingly,  and,  drawing  the  paper  toward  me,  began  in  a mixt- 
ure of  French  and  Portuguese,  ^as  it  happened,  to  indite  my 
billet. 

“Senora  Inez” — no — ‘‘raa  chere  Mademoiselle  Inez” — con- 
found it,  that’s  too  intimate;  well,  here  goes — “ Monsieur  O’Mal- 
ley presente  ses  respects  ” — that  will  never  do;  and  then  after 
twenty  other  abortive  attempts,  I began  thoughtlessly  sketching 
heads  upon  the  paper,  and  scribbling  with  wonted  facility  in 
fi$ty  different  ways— “ Ma  charmante  amie — ma  plus  chere  Inez 
— anima  mai;”  and  in  this  most  useful  and  profitable  occupation 
did  I pass  another  half  hour. 

How  long  I should  have  persisted  in  such  an  employment  it  is 
difficult  to  say,. had  not  an  incident  intervened,  which  suddenly, 
but  most  effectually,  put  an  end  to  it.  As  the  circumstance 
is  one  which,  however  little  striking  in  itself,  had  the 
greatest  and  most  lasting  influence  upon  my  future  career,  I 
shall,  perhaps,  be  excused  in  devoting  another  chapter  to  its 
recital. 


CHAPTER  LXXVII. 

A PLEASANT  PREDICAMENT. 

As  I sat  vainly  endeavoring  to  fix  upon  some  suitable  and 
appropriate  epithet,  by  which  to  commence  my  note,  my  back 
was  turned  toward  the  door  of  the  garden,  and  so  occupied  was 
I in  my  meditations,  that,  even  had  any  one  entered  at  the  time, 
in  all  probability  I should’not  have  perceived  it.  At  length,  how- 
ever, I was  aroused  from  my  study  by  a burst  of  laughter,  whose 
girlish  joyousness  was  not  quite  new  to  me.  I knew  it  well — 
it  was  the  senora  herself,  and  the  next  moment  I heard  her 
voice. 

‘‘  I tell  you,  I am  quite  certain  I saw  his  face  in  the  mirror  as 
I passed.  Oh,  and  how  delightful;  you  will  be  so  charmed  with 
him;  but,  mind,  you  must  not  steal  him  from  me;  I shall  never 
forgive  you  if  you  do;  and,  look,  only  look,  he  has  got  the  blue 
scarf  I gave  him  when  he  marched  to  the  Douro.” 

Wliile  I perceived  that  I was  myself  seen,  I could  see  nothing 
of  the  speaker,  and,  wishing  to  hear  something  more,  appeared 
more  than  ever  occupied  in  the  writing  before  me. 

What  her  companion  replied  I could  not,  however,  catch,  but 
only  guess  at  its  import  by  the  sen  ora’s  answer. 

'^Fidonc!  I really  am  very  fond  of  him;  but,  never  fear,  I 
shall  be  as  stately  as  a queen.  You  shall  see  how  meekly  he 
will  kiss  my  hand,  and  with  what  unbending  reserve  I’ll  re- 
ceive him.” 

“ Indeed!”  thought  I,  “ mayhap  I’ll  mar  your  plot  a little;  but 
let  us  listen.” 

Again  her  friend  spoke,  but  too  low  to  be  heard. 

“ It  is  so  provoking,”  said  the  senora;  “ I never  can  remem- 
ber names,  and  his  was  something  too  absurd;  but  never  mind, 
I shall  make  him  a grandee  of  Portugal.  Well,  but  come 
along,  I long  to  present  him  to  you.” 

Here  a gentle  struggle  seemed  to  ensue,  for  I heard  the  se- 


43  CHARLES  OMALLEY. 

nora  coaxingly  entreat  her,  while  her  companion  steadily  re 
sisted. 

“I  know  very  well  you  think  I shall  be  so  silly,  and  per- 
haps  wrong;  eh,  is  it  not  so  ? But  you’re  quite  mistaken.  You'll 
be  surprised  at  my  cold  and  dignified  manner.  I shall  draw  my- 
self proudly  up,  then,  courtesy ing  deeply,  say:  ‘ Monsieur  j’ai 
Fhonneur  de  vous  saluer.’  ” 

A laugh  twice  as  mirthful  as  before  interrupted  her  account 
of  herself,  while  I could  hear  the  tones  of  her  friend  evidently 
in  expostulation. 

“Well,  then,  to  be  sure,  you  are  provoking;  but  you  really 
promise  to  follow  me.  Be  it  so;  then  give  me  that  moss-rose. 
How  you  have  flattered  me;  now  for  it."’ 

So  saying,  I heard  her  foot  upon  the  gravel,  and  the  next  in- 
stant upon  the  marble  step  of  the  door.  There  is  something  in 
expectation  that  sets  the  heart  beating,  and  mine  throbbed 
against  my  side.  I waited,  however,  till  she  entered,  before 
lifting  my  head,  and  then  springing  suddenly  up,  with  one 
bound,  clasped  her  in  my  arms,  and  pressing  my  lips  upon  her 
roseate  cheek,  said: 

“ilfa  charmante  amier  To  disengt^ge  herself  from  me,  and  to 
spring  suddenly  back,  was  her  first  effort;  to  burst  into  an  im- 
moderate fit  of  laughing,  her  second;  her  cheek  was,  however, 
covered  with  a deep  blush,  and  I already  repented  that  my 
malice  had  gone  so  far. 

“ Pardon,  mademoiselle,”  said  I,  in  affected  innocence,  “ if  I 
have  so  far  forgotten  myself  as  to  assume  a habit  of  my  own 
country  to  a stranger.” 

A half-angry  toss  of  the  head  was  her  only  reply,  and  turning 
toward  the  garden,  she  called  to  her  friend: 

“Come  here,  dearest,  and  instruct  my  ignorance  upon  your 
national  custom;  but  first  let  me  present  to  you— I never  knew 
his  name — the  Clievalier  de What  is  it?” 

The  glass  door  opened  as  she  spoke;  a tall  and  graceful  figui;e 
entered,  and,  turning  suddenly  round,  showed  me  the  features 
of  Lucy  Dash  wood.  We  both  stood  opposite  each  other,  each 
mute  with  amazement.  My  feelings  let  me  not  attempt  to  con- 
vey; shame  for  the  first  moment  stronger  than  aught  else,  sent 
the  blood  rushing  to  my  face  and  temples,  and  the  next  I was 
cold  and  pale  as  death.  As  for  her,  I cannot  guess  at  what 
passed  in  her  mind.  She  courtesied  deeply  to  me,  and,  with  a 
half  smile  of  scarce  recognition,  passed  by  me,  and  walked  to- 
ward a window. 

“ Comm&nt  vous,  etes  amiable said  the  lively  Portuguese,  who 
comprehended  little  of  this  dumb  show;  “ here  have  I been  flat- 
tering myself  vrhat  friends  you’d  be  the  very  moment  you  met, 
and  now  you’ll  not  even  look  at  each  other.” 

What  was  to  be  done  ? The  situation  was  every  instant  grow- 
ing more  and  more  embarrassing;  nothing  but  downright  ef- 
frontery could  get  through  with  it  now ; and  never  did  a man’s 
heart  more  fail  him  than  did  mine  at  this  conjuncture.  I made 
the  effect,  however,  and  stammered  out  certain  unmeaning 
common-places.  Inez  replied,  and  I felt  myself  con  versing  with 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY, 


43 


the  headlong  recklessness  of  one  marching  to  the  scaffold,  a 
coward’s  fear  at  Lis  heart,  while  he  essayed  to  seem  careless  and 
indifferent. 

Anxious  to  reach  what  I esteemed  safe  ground,  I gladly 
averted  to  the  campaign;  and  at  last,  hurried  on  by  the  impulse 
to  cover  my  embarrassment,  was  describing  some  skirmish  with 
a French  outpost.  Without  intending,  I had  succeeded  in  ex- 
citing  the  senora’s  interest,  and  she  listened  with  sparkling  eyes 
and  parted  lips  to  the  description  of  a sweeping  charge  in  which 
a square  was  broken,  and  several  prisoners  carried  off.  Warm- 
ing with  the  eager  avidity  of  her  attention,  I grew  myself  more 
excited,  when  just  as  my  narrative  had  reached  its  climax.  Miss 
Dash  wood  walked  gently  toward  the  bell,  rang  it,  and  ordered 
her  carriage;  the  tone  of  perfect  nonchalance  of  the  whole  pro- 
ceeding struck  me  dumb.  I faltered,  stammered,  hesitated,  and 
was  silent.  The  senora  turned  from  one  to  the  other  of  us  with 
a look  of  unfeigned  astonishment,  and  I heard  her  mutter  to 
herself  something  like  a reflection  upon  ‘‘  national  eccentricities.” 
Happily,  however,  her  attention  was  now  exclusively  turned 
toward  her  friend,  and,  while  assisting  her  to  shawl,  and  extort- 
ing •innumerable  promises  of  an  early  visit,  I got  a momentary 
reprieve;  the  carriage  drew  up  also,  and  as  the  gravel  flew  right 
and  left  beneath  the  horses’  feet,  the  very  noise  and  bustle  re- 
lieved me. 

“ AdwsE  then  said  Inez,  as  she  kissed  her  for  the  last  time, 
while  she  motioned  to  me  to  escort  her  to  her  carriage.  I ad- 
vanced— stopped — made  another  step  forward,  and  again  grew 
irresolute;  but  Miss  Dash  wood  speedily  terminated  the  difficulty; 
for,  making  me  a formal  courtesy,  she  declined  my  scarce  prof- 
fered attention,  and  left  the  room. 

As  she  did  so,  I perceived  that  on  passing  the  table  her  eyes 
fell  upon  the  paper  I had  been  scribbling  over  so  long,  and  I 
thought  that  for  an  instant  an  expression  of  ineffable  scorn 
seemed  to  pass  across  her  features,  save  which — and  perhaps 
even  in  this  I was  mistaken—her  manner  was  perfectly  calm, 
easy,  and  indifferent. 

Scarce  had  the  carriage  rolled  from  the  door  when  the  senora, 
throwing  herself  upon  a chair,  clapped  her  hands  in  childish  ec- 
stasy, while  she  fell  into  a fit  of  laughing  that  I thought  never 
would  have  an  end. 

‘‘  Such  a scene,”  cried  she;  “ I would  not  have  lost  it  for  the 
world;  what  cordiality!  what  empresseinent  to  form  acquaint- 
ance! I shall  never  forget  it.  Monsieur  le  Chevalier;  your  na- 
tional customs  seem  to  run  sadly  in  extremes.  One  would  have 
thought  you  deadl}'  enemies,  and  poor  me!  after  a thousand  de- 
lightful plans  about  you  both.” 

As  she  ran  on  thus,  scarce  able  to  control  her  mirth  at  each 
sentence,  I walked  the  room  with  impatient  strides,  now  resolv- 
ing to  hasten  after  the  carriage,  stop  it,  explain  in  a few  words 
how  all  had  happened,  and  then  fly  from  her  forever;  then  the 
remembrance  of  her  cold,  impassive  look  crossed  me,  and  I 
thought  that  one  bold  leap  into  the  Tagus  might  be  the  shortest 
and  easiest  solution  to  all  my  miseries;  perfect  abasement,,  thor- 


44 


CHARLES  omALLEY. 


ough  self- contempt  had  broken  all  my  courage,  and  I could  have 
cried  like  a child.  What  I said,  or  how  I comforted  myself  after, 
I know  not;  but  my  first  consciousness  came  to  me,  as  I felt 
myself  running  at  the  top  of  my  speed  far  upon  the  road  toward 
Lisbon. 


CHAPTER  LXXVIII, 

THE  DINNER. 

It  may  easily  be  imagined  that  I had  little  inclination  to  keep 
my  promise  of  dining  that  day  with  Sir  George  Dash  wood. 
However,  there  was  nothing  else  for  it;  the  die  was  cast — my 
prospects  as  regarded  Lucy  were  ruined  forever.  We  were  not, 
we  never  could  be  anything  to  each  other;  and  as  for  me,  the 
sooner  I braved  my  altered  fortunes  the  better;  and,  after  all, 
why  should  I call  them  altered — she  evidently  never  had  cared 
for  me,  and,  even  supposing  that  my  fervent  declaration  of  at- 
tachment had  interested  her,  the  apparent  duplicity  and  false- 
ness of  my  late  conduct  could  only  fall  the  more  heavily  upon 
me. 

I endeavored  to  philosophize  myself  into  calmness  and  in- 
difference. One  by  one  I exhausted  every  argument  for  my  de- 
fense, which,  however,  ingeniously  put  forward,  brought  no 
comfort  to  my  own  conscience.  I pleaded  the  unerring  devo- 
tion of  my  heart — the  uprightness  of  my  motives — and  when 
called  on  for  the  proofs — alas!  except  the  blue  scarf  I wore  in 
memory  of  another,  and  my  absurd  conduct  at  the  villa,  I had 
none.  From  the  current  gossip  of  Lisbon,  down  to  my  own  dis- 
graceful folly,  all — all  was  against  me. 

Honesty  of  intention — rectitude  of  purpose,  may  be,  doubtless, 
they  are,  admirable  supports  to  a rigidly  constituted  mind;  but 
even  then  they  must  come  supported  by  such  claims  to  proba- 
bility as  make  the  injured  man  feel  he  has  not  lost  the  sympathy 
of  all  his  fellows.  Now,  I had  none  of  these,  had  even  my  tem- 
perament, brolcen  by  sickness  and  harrassed  by  unlucky  conject- 
ures, permitted  my  appreciating  them. 

I endeavored  to  call  my  wounded  pride  to  my  aid,  and 
thought  over  the  glance  of  haughty  disdain  she  gave  me  as  she 
passed  on  to  her  carriage;  but  even  this  turned  against  me,  and 
a humiliating  sense  of  my  own  degraded  position  sunk  deeply 
into  my  heart.  ‘‘This  impression  at  least,”  thought  I,  “must 
be  effaced.  I cannot  permit  her  to  believe ” 

“ His  Excellency  is  waiting  dinner,  sir,”  said  a lackey,  introduc- 
ing a finely-powdered  head  gently  within  the  door.  I looked  at 
my  watch,  it  was  eight  o’clock;  so,  snatching  my  saber  and 
shocked  at  my  delay,  I hastily  followed  the  servant  down-stairs, 
and  thus  at  once  cut  short  my  deliberations. 

The  man  must  be  but  little  observant,  or  deeply  sunk  in  his 
own  reveries,  who,  arriving  half  an  hour  too  late  for  dinner, 
fails  to  detect  in  the  faces  of  the  assembled  and  expecting 
guests  a very  palpable  expression  of  discontent  and  displeasure. 
It  is  truly  a moment  of  awkwardness,  and  one  in  which  few  are 
found  to  manage  with  success;  the  blushing,  hesitating,  blun- 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


4S 


dermg  apology  of  the  absent  man,  is  scarcely  better  than  the 
ill-affected  surprise  of  the  more  practiced  offender.  The  bash- 
I'ulness  of  the  one  is  as  distasteful  as  the  cool  impertinence  of 
the  other;  both  are  so  thoroughly  out  of  place,  for  we  are  think- 
ing of  neither;  our  thoughts  are  wandering  to  cold  soups  and 
rechauffed  pates,  and  v/e  neither  care  for  nor  estimate  the 
cause,  but  satisfy  our  spleen  by  cursing  the  offender. 

Happily  for  me,  I was  clad  in  a triple  insensibility  to  such 
feelings,  and  with  an  air  of  roost  perfect  unconstraint  and  com- 
posure, walked  into  a drawing-room  where  about  twenty  per- 
sons were  busily  discussing  what  peculiar  amiability  of  charac- 
ter could  compensate  for  my  present  conduct. 

“At  last,  O’Malley,  at  last!”  said  Sir  George.  “ Why,  my  dear 
boy,  how  very  late  you. are.” 

I muttered  something  about  a long  w^alk — distance  from  Lis- 
bon, etc. 

“ Ah,  that  was  it.  I was  right,  you  see!”  said  an  old  lady  in  a 
spangled  turban,  as  she  whispered  something  to  her  friend  be- 
side her,  who  appeared  excessively  shocked  at  the  information 
conveyed.  While  a fat,  round-faced  little  general,  after  eyeing 
me  steadily  through  liis  glass,  expressed  a sub  voce  wish  that  I 
was  upon  his  staff.  I felt  my  cheek  reddening  at  the  moment, 
and  stared  around  me  like  one  whose  trials  were  becoming  down- 
right insufferable,  when  happily  dinner  was  announced,  and 
terminated  my  embarrassment. 

As  the  party  filed  past,  I perceived  that  Miss  Dashwood  was 
not  amongst  them,  and  with  a heart  relieved  for  the  moment  by 
the  circumstance,  and  inventing  a hundred  conjectures  to  ac- 
count for  it,  I followed  with  the  aides-de-camp  and  the  staff  to 
the  dinner-room. 

The  temperament  is  very  Irish,  I believe,  which  renders  a man 
so  elastic,  that  from  the  extreme  of  depression  to  the  very  climax 
of  high  spirits  there  is  but  one  spring.  To  this  I myself  pleaded 
guilty,  and  thus  scarcely  was  freed  from  the  embarrassment 
which  a meeting  with  Lucy  Dashwood  must  have  caused,  when 
my  heart  bounded  with  lightness. 

When  the  ladies  withdrew,  the  events  of  the  campaign 
became  the  subject  of  conversation,  and  upon  these,  very  much 
to  my  astonishment,  I found  myself  consulted  as  an  authority. 
The  Douro,  from  some  fortunate  circumstance,  had  given  me  a 
reputation  I never  dreamed  of,  and  I heard  my  opinions  quoted 
upon  topics  of  which  my  standing  as  an  officer  and  my  rank  in 
the  service  could  not  imply  a very  extended  observation. 
Power  was  absent  on  duty,  and,  happily  for  my  supremacy,  the 
company  consisted  entirely  of  generals  in  the  commissariat,  or 
new  arrivals  from  England,  all  of  whom  knew  still  less  than 
myself. 

What  will  not  iced  champagne  and  flattery  do  ? Singly,  they 
are  strong  impulses;  combined,  their  power  is  irresistible.  I now 
heard  for  the  first  time  that  our  great  leader  had  been  elevated 
to  the  peerage,  by  the  title  of  Lord  Wellington;  and  I sincerely 
believe,  however  now  I may  smile  at  the  confession,  that,  at  the 
moment,  I felt  more  elation  at  the  circumstance  than  he  did. 


46 


CkARLES  O'MALLEY. 


The  glorious  sensation  of  being  in  any  way,  no  matter  how 
remotely, ilinked  with  the  career  of  those  whose  path  is  a high  one, 
and  whose  destinies  art?  cast  for  great  events,  thrilled  through 
me;  and  in  all  the  warmth  of  my  admiration  and  pride  for  our 
great  captain,  a secret  pleasure  stirred  within  me,  as  I whispered 
to  myself;  “ And  I,  too,  am  a soldier!^’ 

I fear  me  that  very  little  adulation  is  sufficient  to  turn  the 
head  of  a young  man  of  eighteen;  and  if  I yielded  to  the  ‘‘  pleas- 
ant incense,”  let  my  apology  be,  that  I w^as  not  used  to  it;  and, 
lastly,  let  me  avow,  if  I did  get  tipsy — I liked  the  dquor.  And 
why  not  ? It  is  the  only  tipple  I know  of  that  leaves  no  head- 
ache the  next  morning,  to  punish  you  for  the  glories  of  the  past 
night.  It  may,  like  all  other  strong  potations,  it  is  true,  induce 
you  to  make  a fool  of  yourself  when  under  its  influence;  but, 
like  the  nitrous  oxide  gas,  its  effects  are  passing,  and  as  the 
pleasure  is  an  ecstasy  for  the  time,  and  your  constitution  none 
the  worse  when  it  is  over,  I really  see  no  harm  in  it. 

Then  the  benefits  are  manifest;  for  while  he  who  gives  be- 
comes never  the  poorer  for  his  benevolence,  the  receiver  is  made 
rich  indeed.  It  matters  little  that  some  dear,  kind  friend 
is  ready  with  his  bitter  draught  to  remedy  wdiat  he  is 
pleased  to  call  its  unwholesome  sweetness;  you  betake 
yourself  with  only  the  more  pleasure  to  the  ‘‘blessed  elixir,” 
whose  fascinations  neither  the  poverty  of  your  pocket  nor 
the  penury  of  your  brain  can  withstand,  and  by  the  magic 
of  whose  spell  you  are  great  and  gifted.  Vive  la  bagatelle,  say- 
eth  the  Frenchman.  Long  live  flattery,  say  I,  come  from  what 
quarter  it  will;  the  only  wealth  of  the  poor  man— the  only  re- 
ward of  the  unknown  one;  the  arm  that  supports  us  in  failure — 
the  hand  that  crowns  us  in  success;  the  comforter  in  our  affiic- 
tion — the  gay  companion  in  our  hours  of  pleasure;  the  lullaby 
of  the  infant — the  staff  of  old  age;  the  secret  treasure  we  lock 
up  in  our  own  hearts,  and  which  ever  grows  [greater  as  we 
count  it  over.  Let  me  not  be  told  that  the  coin  is  fictitious  and 
the  gold  not  genuine;  its  clink  is  as  musical  to  the  ear  as  though 
it  bore  the  last  impression  of  the  mint;  and  I am  not  the  man  to 
cast  an  aspersion  upon  its  value. 

This  little  digression,  however  seemingly  out  of  place,  may 
serve  to  illustrate  what  it  might  be  difficult  to  convey  in  other 
words — namely,  that  if  Charles  O’Malley  became  in  his  own 
estimation  a very  considerable  personage  that  day  at  dinner, 
the  fault  lay  not  entirely  with  himself,  but  with  his  friends  who 
told  him  he  was  such.  In  fact,  my  good  reader,  I was  the  lion 
of  the  party — the  man  who  saved  Laborde — who  charged  through 
a brigade  of  guns;  who  performed  feats  which  newspapers 
quoted,  though  he  never  heard  of  them  himself.  At  no  time  is 
a man  so  successful  in  society  as  when  his  reputation  chaperones 
him;  and  it  needs  but  little  conversational  eloquence  to  talk 
well,  if  you  have  but  a willing  and  ready  auditory.  Of  mine  I 
could  certainly  not  complain,  and,  as  drinking  deeply,  I poured 
forth  a whole  tide  of  campaigning  recital,  I saw  the  old  colonela 
of  recruiting  districts  exchanging  looks  of  wonder  and  admira- 
tion with  officers  of  the  ordnance,  while  Sir  George  himself, 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


47 


evidently  pleased  at  my  debut,  went  back  to  an  early  period  of 
our  acquaintance,  and  related  the  rescue  of  his.  daughter  in  Gal- 
way. 

In  an  instant  the  whole  current  of  my  thoughts  was  changed. 
My  first  meeting  with  Lucy,  my  boyhood’s  dream  of  ambition, 
my  plighted  faith,  my  thought  of  our  last  parting  in  Dublin, 
when  in  a moment  of  excited  madness  I told  my  tale  of  love.  I 
remembered  her  downcast  look,  as,  her  cheek  now  flushing,  now 
growing  pale,  she  trembled  while  I spoke.  I thought  of  her,  as 
in  the  crash  of  battle  her  image  flashed  across  my  brain,  and 
made  me  feel  a rush  of  chivalrous  enthusiasm  to  win  her  heart 
by  “doughty  deeds.” 

I forgot  all  around  and  about  me.  My  head  reeled,  the  wine, 
the  excitement,  my  long  previous  illness,  all  pressed  upon  me; 
and  as  my  temples  throbbed  loudly  and  painfully,  a chaotic  rush 
of  discordant,  ill-connected  ideas  flitted  across  my  mind.  There 
seemed  some  stir  and  confusion  in  the  room,  but  why  or  where- 
fore I could  not  think,  nor  could!  recall  my  scattered  senses,  till 
Sir  George  Dashwood’s  voice  roused  me  once  again  to  conscious- 
ness. 

‘ ‘ We  are  going  to  have  some  coffee,  O’Malley.  Miss  Dash  wood 
expects  us  in  the  drawing-room.  You  have  not  seen  her  yet?” 

I know  not  my  reply;  but  he  continued: 

“ She  has  some  letters  for  you,  I think.” 

I muttered  something,  and  suffered  him  to  pass  on;  no  sooner 
had  he  done  so,  however,  than  I turned  toward  the  door,  and 
rushed  into  the  street.  The  cold  night  air  suddenly  recalled  me 
to  myself,  and  I stood  for  a moment,  endeavoring  to  collect  my- 
self; as  I did  so,  a servant  stopped,  and,  saluting  me,  presented 
me  with  a letter.  For  a second  a cold  chill  came  over  me;  I 
knew  not  what  fear  beset  me.  The  letter,  T at  last  remembered, 
must  be  that  one  alluded  to  by  Sir  George,  so  I took  it  in  silence 
and  walked  on. 


CHAPTER  LXXIX. 

THE  LETTER. 

As  I hurried  to  my  quarters,  I made  a hundred  guesses  from 
whom  the  letter  con  Id  have  come;  a kind  of  presentiment  told 
me  that  it  bore,  in  some  measure,  upon  the  present  crisis  of  my 
life,  and  I burned  with  anxiety  to  read  it. 

No  sooner  had  I reached  the  light,  than  all  my  hopes  on  this 
head  vanished;  the  envelope  bore  the  well-known  name  of  my 
old  college  chum,  Frank  Webber,  and  none  could  at  the  moment 
have  more  completely  dispelled  all  chance  of  interesting  mco  I 
threw  it  from  me  with  disappointment,  and  sat  moodily  down 
to  brood  over  my  fate. 

At  length,  however,  and  almost  without  knowing  it,  I drew 
the  lamp  toward  me,  and  broke  the  seal.  The  reader  being  al- 
ready acquainted  with  my  amiable  friend,  there  is  the  less  indis- 
cretion in  communicating  the  contents;  it  ran  thus; 


48 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


“ Trinity  College,  Dublin,  No.  2,  ) 
Oct.  5,  1810.  \ 

“My  Dear  O’Malley, — Nothing  short  of  your  death  and 
burial,  with  or  without  military  honors,  can  possibly  excuse 
your  very  disgraceful  neglect  of  your  old  friends  here.  Nesbitt 
has  never  heard  of  you,  neither  has  Smith.  Ottley  swears  never 
to  have  seen  your  handwriting,  save  on  the  back  of  a protested 
bill.  You  have  totally  forgotten  me,  and  the  Dean  informs  me 
that  you  have  nevef^  condescended  a single  line  to  him;  which 
latter  inquiry  on  my  part  nearly  cost  me  a rustication. 

“ A hundred  conjectures  to  account  for  you  silence — a new 
feature  in  you  since  you  were  here — are  afloat.  Some  assert  that 
your  soldiering  has  turned  your  head,  and  that  you  are  above 
corresponding  with  civilians.  Your  friends,  however,  who  know 
you  better,  and  value  your  worth,  think  otherwise;  “and, 
having  seen  a paragraph  about  one  O’Malley  being  tried  by 
court-martial  for  stealing  a goose,  and  maltreating  the  woman 
that  owned  it,  ascribe  your  not  writing  to  other  motives.  Do,  in 
any  case,  relieve  our  minds;  say  it  is  yourself f or  only  a relative 
that’s  mentioned. 

“Herbert  came  over  from  London  with  a long  story  about 
your  doing  wonderful  things — capturing  cannon  and  general 
officers  by  scores,  but  devil  a word  of  it  is  extant;  and  if  you 
have  really  committed  these  acts,  they  have  ‘ misused  the  king’s 
press  damnably;’  for  neither  in  the  Times  nor  the  Post  are  you 
heard  of.  Answer  this  point;  and  say  also  if  you  have  got  pro- 
motion; for  what  precise  sign  you  are  algebraically  expressed  by 
at  this  writing,  may  do  Fitzgerald  for  a fellowship  question.  As 
for  us,  we  are  jogging  along,  semper  eadem — that  is,  worse  and 
worse.  Dear  Cecil  Cavendish,  our  gifted  friend,  slight  of  limb 
and  soft  of  voice,  has  been  rusticated  for  immersing  four  brick- 
layers in  that  green  receptacle  of  stagnant  water  and  duckweed, 
yclept  the  ‘ Ha-ha.’  Roper,  equally  unlucky,  has  taken  to  read- 
ing for  honors,  and  obtained  a medal,  I fancy;  at  least  his 
friends  shy  him,  and  it  must  be  something  of  that  kind.  Bel 
son — poor  Belson  (fortunately  for  him  he  was  born  in  the  nine- 
teenth, not  the  sixteenth  century,  or  he’d  be  most  likely  orna 
men  ting  a pile  of  fagots)  ventured  upon  some  stray  excursions 
into  the  Hebrew  verbs — the  professor  himself  never  having 
transgressed  beyond  the  declensions;  and  the  consequence  is,  he 
is  in  disgrace  among  the  seniors.  And  as  for  me,  a heavy  charge 
hangs  over  my  devoted  head  even  while  I write.  The  senior  lect- 
urer, it  appears,  has  been  for  some  time  past  instituting  some 
very  singular  researches  into  the  original  state  of  our  goodl3" 
college  at  its  founding.  Plans  and  speciflcations  showing  its  ex- 
tent and  magniflcence  have  been  continually  before  the  board 
for  the  last  month;  and  m such  repute  have  been  a smashed 
door-sill  and  an  old  arch,  that  freslimen  have  now  abandoned 
conic  sections  for  crow-bars,  and  instead  of  the  Principia,  have 
taken  up  the  pick-ax.  You  know,  my  dear  fellow,  with  what 
enthusiasm  I enter  into  any  scheme  for  the  aggrandizement  of 
our  Alma  Mater,  so  I need  not  tell  you  how  ardently  I advent- 
ured into  the  career  now  opened  to  me.  My  time  was  com- 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY, 


49 


pletely  devoted  to  the  matter;  neither  means  nor  health  did  I 
spare,  and  in  my  search  for  antiquarian  lore,  I have  actually  un- 
dermined the  old  waJl  of  the  fellows’  garden,  and  am  each 
morning  in  expectation  of  hearing  that  the  big  bell  near  the 
commons  hall  has  descended  from  its  lofty  and  most  noisy  emi- 
nence, and  is  snugly  reposing  in  the  mud.  Meanwhile,  acci- 
dent put  me  in  possession  of  a most  singular  and  remarkable 
discovery.  Our  chambers — I call  them  ours  for  old  association 
sake — are,  you  may  remember,  in  the  old  square.  Well,  I have 
been  fortunate  enough  within  the  very  precincts  of  my  own 
dwelling  to  contribute  a very  wonderful  fact  to  the  history  of 
the  university  — alone  — unassisted — unaided  — I labored  at 
my  discovery.  Few  can  estimate  the  pleasure  I felt — the  fame 
and  reputation  I anticipated.  I drew  up  a little  memoir  for  the 
board,  most  respectfully  and  civillj  worded,  having  for  title  the 
following; 

‘ ACCOUNT 

OP  A REMARKABLE  SUBTERRANEAN 
PASSAGE 

LATELY  DISCOVERED  IN  THE 
OLD  BUILDING  OF  TRINITY  COLLEGE, 

DUBLIN, 

WITH  REMARKS  UPON  ITS  EXTENT, 

ANTIQUITY,  AND  PROBABLE  USE, 

BY  F.  WEBBER,  SENIOR  FRESHMAN.’ 

“ My  dear  O’Malley,  I’ll  not  dwell  upon  the  pride  I felt  in  my 
new  character  of  antiquarian.  It  is  enough  to  state,  that  my 
very  remarkable  tract  was  well  considered  and  received,  and  a 
commission  appointed  to  investigate  the  discovery,  consisting  of 
the  vice-provost,  the  senior  lecturer,  old  Woodhouse,  the  sub- 
dean, and  a few  more. 

‘‘  On  Tuesday  last  they  came  accordingly,  in  full  academic 
costume.  I being  habited  most  accurately  in  the  like  manner, 
and  conducting  tliem  with  all  form  into  my  bedroom,  where  a 
large  screen  concealed  from  view  the  entrance  to  the  tunnel  al- 
luded to.  Assuming  a very  John  Kembleish  attitude,  I struck 
this  down  with  one  hand,  pointing  with  the  other  to  the  wall, 
as  I exclaimed:  ‘ There!  look  there!’ 

“ I need  only  quote  Barrett’s  exclamation  to  enlighten  you 
upon  my  discovery,  as,  drawing  in  his  breath  with  a strong 
effort,  he  burst  out: 

“ ‘ May  the  devil  admire  me,  but  it’s  a rat-hole.’ 

“I  fear,  Charley,  he’s  right;  and  what’s  more,  that  the  board 
will  think  so,  for  this  moment  a very  warm  discussion  is  going 
on  among  that  amiable  and  learned  body,  whether  I shall  any 
longer  remain  an  ornament  to  the  university.  In  fact,  the  terror 
with  which  they  fled  from  my  chambers,  overturning  each  other 
in  the  passage,  seemed  to  imply  that  they  thought  me  mad;  and 
I do  believe  my  voice,  look,  and  attitude  would  not  have  dis- 
graced a blue  cotton  dressing-gown,  and  a cell  in  ‘ Swift’s.’  Be 
this  as  it  may,  few  men  have  done  more  for  college  them  I have. 
The  sun  never  stood  still  for  Joshua  with  more  resolution  than  I 


50 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


have  rested  in  my  career  of  freshman;  and  if  I have  contributed 
little  to  the  fame,  I have  done  much  for  the  funds  of  the  univer- 
sity; and  when  they  come  to  compute  the  various  sums  I have 
paid  in,  for  fines,  penalties,  and  what  they  call  properly  imposi- 
tions, if  they  don’t  place  a portrait  of  me  in  the  examination- 
hall  between  Archbishop  Ussher  and  Flood,  then  do  I say  there 
is  no  gratitude  in  mankind ; not  to  mention  the  impulse  I have 
given  to  the  various  artisans  whose  business  it  is  to  repair  lamps, 
windows,  chimneys,  iron  railings,  and  watchmen,  all  of  which 
I have  devoted  myself  to,  with  an  enthusiasm  for  political  econ- 
omy, well-known,  and  registered  in  the  College  street  police 
office. 

‘‘  After  all,  Charley,  I miss  you  greatly.  Your  second  in  a 
ballad  is  not  to  be  replaced;  besides,  Carlisle  Bridge  has  got  low; 
medical  students  and  young  attorneys  affect  minstrelsy,  and 
actually  frequent  the  haunts  sacred  to  our  muse. 

“ Dublin  is,  upon  the  whole,  I think,  worse;  though  one  scarce- 
ly ever  gets  tired  laughing  at  the  small  celebrities ” 

Master  Frank  gets  here  indiscreet,  so  I shall  skip. 


‘‘And  so  the  Dash  woods  are  going  too;  this  will  make  mine  a 
pitiable  condition,  for  I really  did  begin  to  feel  tender  in  that 
quarter.  You  may  have  heard  she  refused  me;  this,  however, 
is  not  correct,  though  I have  little  doubt  it  might  have  been— 
had  I asked  her. 

“ Hammersly  has,  you  know,  got  his  congee,  I wonder  how 
the  poor  fellow  took  it,  when  Power  gave  him  back  his  letters 
and  his  picture.  How  you  are  to  be  treated  remains  to  be  seen : 
in  any  case  you  certainly  stand  first  favorite.” 

I laid  down  the  letter  at  this  passage,  unable  to  read  further. 
Here,  then,  was  the  solution  of  the  whole  chaos  of  mystery; 
here  the  full  explanation  of  what  had  puzzled  my  aching  brain 
for  many  a night  long.  These  were  the  very  letters  I had  my- 
self delivered  into  Hammersly’s  hands;  this  the  picture  he  had 
trodden  to  dust  beneath  his  heel  the  morning  of  our  meeting. 
I now  felt  the  reason  of  his  taunting  allusion  to  my  “ success,” 
his  cutting  sarcasm,  his  intemperate  passion.  A flood  of  light 
poured  at  once  across  all  the  dark  passages  of  my  history — and 
Lucy  too — dare  I think  of  her  ? A rapid  thought  shot  through 
my  brain.  What,  if  she  had  really  cared  for  me!  What,  if  for 
me  she  had  rejected  another’s  love!  What,  if  trusting  to  my 
faith,  my  pledged  and  sworn  faith,  she  had  given  me  her  heart. 
Oh,  the  bitter  agony  of  that  thought!  to  think  that  all  my  hopes 
were  shipwrecked,  with  the  land  in  sight. 

I sprung  to  my  feet  with  some  sudden  impulse,  but  as  I did 
so,  the  blood  rushed  madly  to  my  face  and  temples,  which  beat 
violently;  a parched  and  swollen  feeling  came  about  my  throat; 
I endeavored  to  open  my  collar  and  undo  my  stock,  but  my 
disabled  arm  prevented  me.  I tried  to  call  my  servant,  but  my 
utterance  was  thick,  and  my  words  would  not  come;  a frightful 
suspicion  crossed  me  that  my  reason  was  tottering.  I made 
toward  the  door,  but  as  I did  so  the  objects  around  me  became 


CHARLES  (yMALLEY. 


51 


confused  and  mingled,  my  limbs  trembled,  and  I fell  heavily 
upon  the  floor;  a pang  of  dreadful  pain  shot  through  me  as  I 
fell — my  arm  was  rebroken;  after  this  I knew  no  more;  all  the 
accumulated  excitement  of  the  evening  bore  down  with  one  fell 
swoop  upon  my  brain;  ere  day  broke  I was  delirious. 

1 have  a vague  and  indistinct  remembrance  of  hurried  and 
anxious  faces  around  my  bed,  of  whispered  words  and  sorrow- 
ful looks;  but  my  own  thoughts  careered  over  the  bold  hills  of 
the  far  west,  as  I trod  them  in  my  boyhood,  free  and  high  of 
heart,  or  recurred  to  the  din  and  crash  of  the  battle-field,  with 
the  mad  bounding  of  my  war-horse,  and  the  loud  clang  of 
the  trumpet;  perhaps  the  acute  pain  of  my  swollen  and  suffering 
arm  gave  the  character  to  my  mental  aberration,  for  I have 
more  than  once  observed  among  the  wounded  in  battle  that, 
even  when  torn  and  mangled  by  grape  from  a howitzer,  their 
ravings  have  partaken  of  a high  feature  of  enthusiasm,  shouts 
of  triumph,  and  exclamations  of  pleasure;  even  songs  have  I 
heard — but  never  once  the  low  muttering  of  despair,  and  the 
scarce  stiffed  cry  of  sorrow  and  affliction. 

Such  were  the  few  gleams  of  consciousness  which  visited  me, 
and  even  to  such  as  these  1 became  soon  insensible. 

Few  like  to  chronicle,  fewer  still  to  read,  the  sad  history  of  a 
sick-bed.  Of  mine  I know  but  little.  The  throbbing  pulses  of 
the  erring  brain,  the  wild  fancies  of  lunacy  take  no  note  of  time. 
There  is  no  past  nor  future — a dreadful  present,  full  of  its  hur- 
ried and  confused  impressions,  is  all  that  the  mind  beholds;  and 
even  when  some  gleams  of  returning  reason  flash  upon  the  mad 
confusion  of  the  brain,  they  come  like  sunbeams  through  a 
cloud,  dimmed,  darkened  and  perverted. 

It  is  the  restless  activity  of  the  mind  in  fever  that  constitutes 
its  most  painful  anguish;  the  fast-flitting  thoughts  that  rush 
ever  onward,  crowding  sensation  on  sensation,  an  endless  train 
of  exciting  images,  without  purpose  or  repose;  or  even  worse, 
the  straining  effort  to  pursue  some  vague  and  shadowy  concep- 
tion, which  evades  us  ever  as  we  follow,  but  which  mingles  with 
all  around  and  about  us—haunting  us  at  midnight  as  in  the 
noon-time. 

Of  this  nature  was  a vision  which  came  constantly  before  me, 
till  at  length,  by  its  very  recurrence,  it  had  assumed  a kind  of 
real  and  palpable  existence;  and,  as  I watched  it,  my  hea/t 
thrilled  with  the  high  ardor  of  enthusiasm  and  delight,  or  sank 
into  the  dark  abyss  of  sorrow  and  despair.  The  dawning  of 
morning,  the  daylight  sinking,  brought  no  other  image  to  my 
aching  sight,  and  of  this  alone,  of  all  the  impressions  of  the 
period,  has  my  mind  retained  any  consciousness. 

Methought  I stood  within  an  old  and  venerable  cathedral, 
where  the  dim  yellow  light  fell  with  a rich  but  solemn  glow 
upon  the  fretted  capitals,  or  the  grotesque  tracings  of  the  oaken 
carvings,  lighting  up  the  faded  gildings  of  the  stately  monu-^ 
ments,  and  tinting  the  varied  hues  of  the  time-worn  banners. 
The  mellow  notes  of  a deep  organ  filled  the  air,  and  seemed  to 
attune  the  sense  to  all  the  awe  and  reverence  of  the  place,  where 
the  very  foot-fall  magnified  by  its  many  echoes,  seemed  halt  a 


52 


CBARLES  O^MALLEY. 


profanation.  I stood  before  an  altar,  beside  me  a young  and 
lovely  girl,  whose  bright  brown  tresses  waved  in  loose  masses 
upon  a neck  of  snowy  whiteness;  her  hand,  cold  and  pale,  rested 
within  my  own;  we  knelt  together,  not  in  prayer,  but  a feeling 
of  deep  reverence  stole  over  my  heart,  as  she  repeated  some  few 
half -uttered  words  after  m*e;  I knew  that  she  was  mine.  Oh! 
the  ecstasy  of  that  moment,  as,  springing  to  my  feet,  I darted 
forward  to  press  her  to  my  heart,  when  suddenly  an  arm  was 
interposed  between  us,  whilst  a low  but  solemn  voice  rung  in 
my  ears,  ‘‘Pass  not!  for  thou  art  false  and  traitorous;  thy  vow 
a perjury,  and  thy  heart  a lie!’’  Slowly  and  silently  the  fair 
form  of  my  loved  Lucy,  for  it  was  she,  receded  from  my  sight. 
One  look,  one  last  look  of  sorrow — it  was  scarce  reproach — fell 
upon  me,  and  I sank  back  upon  the  cold  pavement,  broken^ 
hearted  and  forsaken. 

This  dream  came  with  daybreak,  and  with  the  calm  repose  of 
evening — the  still  hours  of  the  waking  night  brought  no  other 
image  to  my  eyes;  and  when  its  sad  influences  had  spread  a 
gloom  and  desolation  over  my  wounded  heart,  a secret  hope 
crept  over  me,  that  again  the  bright  moment  of  happiness  would 
return,  and  once  more  beside  that  ancient  altar  I'd  kneel  beside 
my  bride,  and  call  her  mine. 


For  the  rest,  my  memory  retains  but  little;  the  kind  looks 
which  came  around  my  bedside  brought  but  a brief  pleasure, 
for  in  their  affectionate  beaming  I could  read  the  gloomy  ‘^pres- 
tige ” of  my  fate.  The  hurried  but  cautious  step,  the  whispered 
sentences,  the  averted  gaze  of  those  who  sorrowed  for  me,  sunk 
fdr  deeper  into  my  heart  than  my  friends  then  thought  of.  Lit- 
tle do  they  think,  who  minister  to  the  sick  or  dying,  how  each 
passing  word,  each  flitting  glance  is  noted,  and  how  the  pale 
and  stilly  figure,  which  lies  all  but  lifeless  before  them,  counts 
over  the  hours  he  has  to  live  by  the  smiles  or  tears  around  him. 

Hours,  days,  weeks,  rolled  over,  and  still  my  fate  hung  in  the 
balance;  and  while  in  the  wild  enthusiasm  of  my  erring  fac- 
ulties, I wandered  far  in  spirit  from  my  bed  of  suffering  and 
pain,  some  well-remembered  voice  beside  me  would  strike  upon 
my  ear,  bringing  me  back,  as  if  by  magic,  to  all  the  realities  of 
life,  and  investing  my  almost  unconscious  state  with  all  the 
hopes  and  fears  about  me. 

One  by  one,  at  length,  these  fancies  fled  from  me,  and  to  the 
delirium  of  fever  succeeded  the  sad  and  helpless  consciousness 
of  illness,  far,  far  more  depressing;  for  as  the  convictions  of  sense 
came  back,  the  sorrowful  aspect  of  a dreary  future  came  with 
them. 


CHAPTEE  LXXX. 

THE  VILLA. 

The  gentle  twilight  of  an  autumnal  evening,  calm,  serene,  and 
mellow,  was  falling,  as  I opened  my  eyes  to  consciousness  of  life 
and  being,  and  looked  around  me.  I lay  in  a large  and  hand- 


CHARLES  GMALLEY. 


,somely  furnished  apartment,  in  which  the  hand  of  taste  was  as 
evident  in  all  the  decorations  as  the  unsparing  employment  of 
wealth;  the  silk  draperies  of  my  bed,  the  inlaid  tables,  the  ormo- 
lu ornaments  which  glittered  upon  the  chimney-piece,  were,  one 
by  one,  so  many  puzzles  to  my  erring  s(3nses.  I opened  and  shut 
my  eyes  again  and  again,  and  essayed  by  every  means  in  my 
power  to  ascertain  if  they  were  not  the  visionary  creations  of  a 
fevered  mind.  I stretched  out  my  hands  to  feel  the  objects;  and 
even  while  holding  the  freshly-plucked  flowers  in  my  grasp  I 
could  scarce  persuade . myself  that  they  were  real.  A thrill  of 
pain  at  this  instant  recalled  me  to  other  thoughts,  and  I turned 
JTiy  oyes  upon  my  wounded  arm,  which,  swollen  and  stiffened, 
lay  motionless  beside  me.  Gradually,  my  memory  came  back, 
and  to  my  weak  faculties  some  passages  of  my  former  life  were 
presented,  not  collectedly,  it  is  true,  nor  in  any  order,  but  scat- 
tered, isolated  scenes.  While  such  thoughts  flew  past,  my  ever- 
rising  question  to  nay  self  was,  “ Where  am  I now  ?”  The  vague 
feeling  which  illness  leaves  upon  the  mind,  whispered  to  me  of 
kind  looks  and  soft  voices;  and  I had  a dreamy  consciousness 
about  me  of  being  watched,  and  cared  for,  but  wherefore,  or  by 
whom,  I knew  not. 

From  a partly  open  door  which  led  into  a garden,  a mild  and 
balmy  air  fanned  my  temples,  and  soothed  my  heated  brow; 
and  as  the  light  curtain  waved  to  and  fro  with  the  breeze,  the 
odor  of  the  rose  and  the  orange-tree  filled  the  apartment. 

There  is  something  in  the  feeling  of  weakness  which  succeeds 
to  long  illness  of  the  most  delicious  and  refined  enjoyment.  The 
spirit  emerging  as  it  were  from  the  thraldom  of  its  grosser  prison, 
rises  high  and  triumphant  above  the  meaner  thoughts  and  more 
petty  ambitions  of  daily  life.  Purer  feelings,  more  ennobling 
hopes  succeed;  and  gleams  of  our  childhood,  |mingling  with  our 
promises  for  the  future,  make  up  an  ideal  existence,  in  which 
the  low  passions  and  cares  of  ordinary  life  enter  not  or  are  for- 
gotten. ’Tis  then  we  learn  to  hold  converse  with  ourselves;  ’tis 
then  we  ask,  how  has  our  manhood  performed  the  promises  of 
its  youth  ? or,  have  our  ripened  prospects  borne  out  the  pledges 
of  our  boyhood  ? ’Tis  then,  in  the  calm  justice  of  our  lonely 
hearts  we  learn  how  our  failures  are  but  another  name  for  our 
faults,  and  that  what  we  looked  on  as  the  vicissitudes  of  fortune, 
are  but  the  fruits  of  our  own  vices.  Alas,  how  short-lived  are 
such  intervals.  Like  the  fitful  sunshine  in  the  wintry  sky,  they 
throw  one  bright  and  joyous  tint  over  the  dark  landscape;  for 
a moment  the  valley  and  the  mountain-top  are  bathed  in  a ruddy 
glow;  the  leafless  tree  and  the  dark  moss  seem  to  feel  a touch  of 
spring;  but  the  next  instant  it  is  past — the  lowering  clouds  and 
the  dark  shadows  intervene,  and  the  cold  blast,  the  moaning 
wind,  and  the  dreary  waste  are  once  more  before  us. 

I endeavored  to  recall  the  latest  events  of  my  career,  but  in 
vain;  the  real  and  the  visionary  were  inextricably  mingled;  and 
the  scenes  of  my  campaigns  were  blended  with  hopes,  and  fears, 
and  doubts,  which  had  no  existence  save  in  my  dreams.  My 
curiosity  to  know  where  I was,  grew  now  my  strongest  feeling, 
and  I raised  myself  with  one  arm,  to  look  around  In  the 


54 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


room  all  was  still  and  silent,  but  nothing  seemed  to  intimate 
what  I sought  for.  As  I looked,  however,  the  wind  blew  back 
the  curtain  which  half  concealed  the  sash  door,  and  disclosed  to 
me  the  figure  of  a man  seated  at  a table;  his  back  was  toward 
me;  but  his  broad  sombrero  hat  and  brown  mantle  bespoke  his 
nation;  the  light  blue  curl  of  smoke  which  wreathed  gently  up- 
ward, and  the  ample  display  of  long-necked,  straw-wrapped 
flasks,  also  attested  that  he  was  enjoying  himself  with  a true 
peninsular  gusto,  having  probably  partaken  of  a long  siesta. 

It  was  a perfect  picture  in  its  way  of  the  indolent  luxury  of 
the  south;  the  rich  and  perfumed  flowers  half  closing  to  the 
night  air,  but  sighing  forth  a perfumed  ‘‘  buonusnochesY  as  they 
betook  themselves  to  rest;  the  slender  shadows  of  the  tall  shrubs, 
stretching  motionless  across  the  walks;  the  very  attitude  of  the 
figure  himself  was  in  keeping,  as,  supported  by  easy  chairs,  he 
lounged  at  full  length,  raising  his  head  ever  and  anon,  as  if  to 
watch  the  wreath  of  eddying  smoke  as  it  rose  upward  from  his 
cigar,  and  melted  away  in  the  distance. 

“ Yes,”  thought  I,  as  I looked  for  some  time,  ‘‘  such  is  the  very 
type  of  his  nation.  Surrounded  by  every  luxury  of  climate, 
blessed  with  all  that  earth  can  offer  of  its  best  and  fairest,  and 
yet  only  using  such  gifts  as  mere  sensual  gratifications.” 
Starting  with  this  theme  I wove  a whole  story  for  the  unknown 
personage,  whom  in  my  wandering  fancy  I began  by  creating  a 
grandee  of  Portugal,  invested  with  rank,  honors  and  riches,  but 
who,  effeminated  by  the  habits  and  usages  of  his  country,  had 
become  the  mere  idle  voluptuary,  living  a life  of  easy  and  in- 
glorious indolence.  My  further  musings  were  interrupted  at  this 
moment,  for  the  individual  to  whom  I had  been  so  compliment- 
ary in  my  reverie,  slowly  arose  from  his  recumbent  position^ 
flung  his  loose  mantle  carelessly  across  his  left  shoulder,  and  push- 
ing open  the  sash  door,  entered  my  chamber.  Directing  his  steps 
to  a large  mirror,  he  stood  for  some  minutes  contemplating  him- 
self with  what,  from  his  attitude,  I judged  to  be  no  small  satisfac- 
tion. Though  his  back  was  still  toward  me,  and  the  dim  twi- 
light of  the  room  too  uncertain  to  see  much,  yet  I could  perceive 
that  he  was  evidently  admiring  himself  in  the  glass.  Of  this  fact 
I had  soon  the  most  complete  proof;  for  as  I looked,  he  slowly 
raised  his  broad-leaf  Spanish  hat  with  an  air  of  most  imposing 
pretension,  and  bowed  reverently  to  himself. 

‘‘  Come  m,  vostra  SenioriaY  said  he. 

The  whole  gesture  and  style  of  this  proceeding  struck  me  as 
so  ridiculous,  that  in  spite  of  c.’l  my  efforts,  I could  scarcely 
repress  a laugh.  He  turned  quickly  round  and  approached  the 
bed.  The  deep  shadow  of  the  sombrero  darkened  the  upper  part 
of  his  features,  but  I could  distinguish  a pair  of  fierce-looking 
mustaches  beneath,  which  curled  upward  toward  his  eyes, 
while  a stiff-point  beard  stuck  straight  from  his  chin.  Fear- 
ing lest  my  rude  interruption  had  been  overheard,  I was  fram- 
ing some  polite  speech  in  Portuguese,  when  he  opened  the 
dialogue  by  asking  in  that  language,  how  I did. 

I replied,  and  was  about  to  ask  some  questions  relative  to 
where,  and  in  whose  protection  I then  was,  when  my  grave- 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


55 


looking  friend  giving  a pirouette  upon  one  leg,  sent  his  hat  flying 
into  the  air,  and  cried  out  in  a voice  that  not  even  my  memory 
could  fail  to  recognize. 

‘‘  By  the  rock  of  Cashel,  he’s  cured!  he’s  cured! — the  fever’s 
over.  Oh,  Master  Charles,  dear!  Oh,  Master,  darling!  And 
ain’t  you  mad,  afther  all  V 

“ Mad!  No,  faith,  but  I shrewdly  suspect  you  must  be.” 

‘‘  Oh,  devil  a taste!  But  spake  to  me,  honey — spake  to  me, 
acushla.  ” 

“ Where  am  I ? Whose  house  is  this  ? What  do  you  mean  by 
that  disguise — that  beard ” 

“Whisht,  I’ll  tell  you  all,  av  you  have  patience;  but  are  you 
cured? — tell  me  that  first;  sure  they  was  going  to  cut  the  arm 
off  you,  till  you  got  out  of  bed,  and  with  your  pistols  sent  them 
flying,  one  out  of  the  window  and  the  other  dowm-stairs;  and  I 
bate  the  little  chap  with  the  saw  myself  till  he  couldn’t  know 
himself  in  the  glass.” 

While  Mike  ran  on  at  this  rate  I never  took  my  eyes  fpm 
him,  and  all  my  poor  faculties  were  equal  to  was  to  convince 
myself  that  the  w^hole  scene  w^as  not  some  vision  of  a wandering 
intellect.  Gradually,  however,  the  well-known  features  re- 
called me  to  myself,  and  as  my  doubts  gave  w^ay  at  length,  I 
laughed  long  and  heartily  at  the  masquerade  absurdity  of  his 
appearance. 

Mike  meanwhile,  whose  face  expressed  no  small  mistrust  at 
the  sincerity  of  my  mirth,  having  uncloaked  himself,  proceeded 
to  lay  aside  his  beard  and  mustaches,  saying,  as  he  did  so: 

“There  now,  darling;  there  now,  Master  dear;  don’t  be  grin- 
ning that  way;  I’ll  not  be  a Portigee  any  more,  av  you’ll  be 
quiet  and  listen  to  reason.” 

“ But,  Mike,  where  am  I?  Answer  me  that  one  question.” 

“You’re  at  home,  dear.  Where  else  should  you  be?” 

“ At  home,”  said  I with  a start,  as  my  eye  ranged  over  the 
various  articles  of  luxury  and  elegance  around,  so  unlike  the 
more  simple  and  unpretending  features  of  my  uncle’s  house; 
“ at  home!” 

“ Ay,  just  so:  sure  isn’t  it  the  same  thing  ? It’s  old  Don  Eman- 
uel that  owns  it;  and  won’t  it  be  your  own  when  you’re  mar^ 
ried  to  the  lovely  Cray ture  herself  ?” 

I started  up,  and  placing  my  hand  upon  my  throbbing  temple, 
asked  myself  if  I were  really  awake;  or  if  some  flight  of  fancy 
had  not  carried  me  a^vay  beyond  the  bounds  of  reason  and  sense. 

“ Go  on,  go  on,”  said  I,  at  length,  in  a hollow  voice,  anxious 
to  gather  from  his  words  something  like  a elew  to  this  mystery. 
“ How  did  this  happen  ?” 

“ Av  ye  mean  how  you  came  here,  faith  it  was  just  this  way: 
after  you  got  the  fever,  and  beat  the  doctors,  devil  a one  would 
go  near  you  but  myself  and  the  Major.” 

“ ThelMajor — Major  Monsoon?” 

“ No,  Major  Power  himself.  Well,  he  told  your  friends  up 
here  how  it  was  going  very  hard  with  you,  and  that  you  were 
like  to  die;  and  the  same  evening  they  sent  down  a beautiful  lit- 
ter, as  like  a hearse  as  two  peas,  for  you,  and  brought  you  up  here 


56 


CHARLES  a MALLET. 

in  state;  devil  a thing  was  wanting  but  a few  people  to  raise  the 
cry  to  make  it  as  fine  a funeral  as  ever  I seen;  and  sure  I set  up 
a whillilew  myself  in  the  Black  Horse  square,  and  the  devils 
only  laughed  at  me. 

“Well,  you  see,  they  put  you  into  a beautiful  elegant  bed, 
and  the  young  lady  herself  sat  down  beside  you,  betimes  fanning 
you  with  a big  fan,  and  then  drying  her  eyes,  for  she  was  weep- 
ing like  a waterfall.  ‘ Don  Miguel,’  says  she  to  me^ — for,  ye 
see,  I put  your  cloak  on  by  mistake  when  I was  leaving  the 
quarters — ‘ Don  Miguel,  questa  hidalgo  e vostro  amigo  ?” 

“ ^My  most  particular  friend,’  says  I,  ‘God  spare  him  many 
years  to  be  so.’ 

“‘Then  take  up  your  quarters  here,’  said  she,  ‘and  don’t 
leave  him;  we’ll  do  everything  in  our  power  to  make  you  com- 
fortable.’ 

“ ‘ I’m  not  particular,’  says  I;  ‘ the  run  of  the  house ’ ” 

“ Then  this  is  the  Villa  Nuova?”  said  I,  with  a faint  sigh. 

“ The  same,”  replied  Mike;  “ and  a sweet  place  it  is  for  eating 
and  drinking — for  wine  in  buckets  full,  ^v  ye  asked  for  it — for 
dancing  and  singing  every  evening,  with  as  pretty  craytures  as 
ever  I set  eyes  upon.  Upon  my  conscience,  it’s  as  good  as  Gal- 
way; and  good  manners  it  is  they  have.  What’s  more,  none  of 
your  liberties  nor  familiarities  with  strangers,  but  it’s  Don  Miguel 
devil  a less.  ‘ Don  Miguel,  av  it’s  plaising  to  you  to  take  a drop 
of  Xeres  before  your  meat — or  would  you  have  ashaughof  a 
pipe  or  cigar  when  you're  done:’  that’s  the  way  of  it.” 

“And  Sir  George  Dashwood,”  said  I,  “has  he  been  here?  has 
he  inquired  for  me  ?” 

“ Every  day,  either  himself  or  one  of  the  staff  comes  gallop- 
ing up  at  luncheon  time  to  ask  after  you,  and  then  they  have  a 
bit  of  tender  discourse  with  the  senora  herself.  Oh!  devil  a bit 
need  ye  fear  them,  she’s  true  blue;  and  it  isn’t  the  Major’s 
fault — upon  my  conscience  it  isn’t;  for  he  does  be  coming  the 
blarney  over  her  in  beautiful  style.” 

“ Does  Miss  Dashwood  ever  visit  here?”  said  I,  with  a voice 
faltering  and  uncertain  enough  to  have  awakened  suspicion  in 
a more  practiced  observer. 

“ Never  once;  and  that’s  what  I call  unnatural  behavior,  after 
you  saving  her  life;  and  if  she  w asn’t ’’ 

“ Be  silent,  I say.” 

“Well — well,  there;  I w^on’t  say  any  more;  and  sure  it’s  time 
for  me  to  be  putting  on  my  beard  again.  I’m  going  to  the 
casino  with  Catrina,  and  sure  it’s  wdth  real  ladies  I might  be  go- 
ing av  it  wasn’t  for  Major  Power,  that  told  them  I w^asn’t  an 
officer;  but  it’s  all  right  again.  I gave  them  a great  history  of 
the  Frees,  from  the  time  of  Cullia  na  Toole,  that  was  one  of 
the  family,  and  a cousin  of  Moses,  I believe;  and  they  behave 
well  to  one  who  comes  from  an  ould  stock.” 

“ Don  Miguel!  Don  Miguel,”  said  a voice  from  the  garden. 

“I’m  coming,  my  angel;  I’m  coming,  my  turtle-dove,’’  said 
Mike,  arranging  his  mustaches  and  beard  wdth  amazing  dex- 
terity. “ Ah,  but  it  would  do  your  heart  good  av  you  could  take 
a peep  at  us  rbout  twelve  o’clo(*k,  dancing  ‘ dirty  James  ’ for  a 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


57 


bolero,  and  just  see  Miss  Catrina,  the  lady’s-maid,  doing  ^ cover 
the  buckle  ’ as  neat  as  nature.  There  now,  there’s  the  lemonade 
near  your  hand,  and  I’ll  leave  you  the  lamp,  and  you  may  go 
asleep  as  soon  as  you  please,  for  Miss  Inez  won’t  come  in  to-night 
to  play  the  guitar,  for  the  Doctor  said  it  might  do  you  harm 
now.” 

So  saying,  and  before  I could  summon  presence  of  mind  to 
ask  another  question,  Don  Miguel  wrapped  himself  in  the  broad 
folds  of  his  Spanish  cloak,  and  strode  from  the  room  with  the 
air  of  an  hidalgo. 

I slept  but  little  that  night;  the  full  tide  of  memory  rushing 
in  upon  me,  brought  back  the  hour  of  my  return  to  Lisbon  and 
the  wreck  of  all  my  hopes,  which,  from  the  narrative  of  my  serv- 
ant, I now  perceived  to  be  complete.  I dare  not  venture  upon 
recording  how  many  plans  suggested  themselves  to  my  troubled 
spirit,  and  were  in  return  rejected.  To  meet  Lucy  Dashwood — 
to  make  a full  and  candid  declaration — to  acknowledge  that 
flirtation  alone  with  Donna  Inez — a mere  passing  boyish  flirta- 
tion— had  given  the  coloring  to  my  innocent  passion,  and  that 
in  heart  and  soul  I was  hers  and  hers  only.  This  was  my  first 
resolve;  but  alas!  if  I had  not  courage  to  sustain  a common  in- 
terview, to  meet  her  in  the  careless  crowd  of  a drawing-room, 
what  could  I do  under  circumstances  like  these;  besides,  the 
matter  would  be  cut  very  short  by  her  coolly  declaring  that  she 
had  neither  right  nor  inclination  to  listen  to  such  a declaration. 
The  recollection  of  her  look  as  she  passed  me  to  her  carriage 
came  flashing  across  my  brain  and  decided  this  point.  No,  no! 
I’ll  not  encounter  that;  however  appearances  for  the  moment 
had  been  against  me,  she  should  not  have  treated  me  thus  coldly 
and  disdainfully.  It  was  quite  clear  she  had  never  cared  for  me; 
wounded  pride  had  been  her  only  feeling;  and  so  as  I reasoned  I 
ended  by  satisfying  myself  that  in  that  quarter  all  was  at  an  end 
forever. 

Now  then  for  dilemma  number  two,  I thought — the  senora. 
My  first  impulse  was  one  of  anything  but  gratitude  to  her,  by 
whose  kind  tender  care  my  hours  of  pain  and  suffering  had  been 
soothed  and  alleviated.  But  for  her,  and  I should  have  been 
spared  all  my  present  embarrassment — all  my  shipwrecked  fort- 
unes; but  for  her  I should  now  be  the  aid-de-camp  residing  in 
Sir  George  Dashwood’s  own  house,  meeting  with  Lucy  every 
hour  of  the  day,  dining  beside  her,  riding  out  with  her,  press- 
ing my  suit  by  every  means  and  with  every  advantage  of  my  posi- 
tion; but  for  her  arki  her  dark  eyes— and,  by  the  bye,  what  eyes 
they  are,  how  full  of  brilliancy,  yet  how  teeming  with  an  ex- 
pression of  soft  and  melting  sweetness,  and  her  mouth,  too,  how 
perfectly  chiseled  those  full  lips — how  different  from  the 
cold  unbending  firmness  of  Miss  Dashwood’s — not  but  I have 
rjeen  Lucy  smile  too,  and  what  a sweet  smile— how  it  lighted  up 
her  fair  cheek,  and  made  her  blue  eyes  darken  and  deepen  till 
they  looked  like  heaven’s  own  vault.  Yes,  there  is  more  poetry 
in  a blue  eye.  But  still  Inez  is  a very  lovely  girl,  and  her  foot 
never  was  surpassed;  she  is  a coquette,  too,  about  that  foot 
and  ankle — I rather  like  a woman  to  be  so.  What  a sensation  she 


58 


CHARLES  SMALLEY 


would  make  in  England— how  she  would  be  the  rage;  and  then 
I thought  of  home  and  Galway,  and  the  astonishment  of  some, 
the  admiration  of  others,  as  I presented  her  as  my  wife;  the  con- 
gratulations of  my  friends,  the  wonder  of  the  men,  the  tem- 
pered envy  of  the  women.  Methought  I saw  my  uncle,  as  he 
pressed  her  in  his  arms  say:  ‘‘  Yes,  Charley,  this  is  a prize  worth 
campaigning  for.” 

The  stray  sounds  of  a guitar  which  came  from  the  garden 
broke  in  upon  my  musings  at  this  moment.  It  seemed  as  if  a 
finger  was  straying  heedlessly  across  the  strings.  I started  up, 
and  to  my  surprise  perceived  it  was  Inez.  Before  I had  time  to 
collect  myself,  a gentle  tap  at  the  window  aroused  me;  it  open- 
ed softly,  while  from  an  unseen  hand  a bouquet  of  fresh  flowers 
was  thrown  upon  my  bed;  before  I could  collect  myself  to  speak 
the  sash  closed  again  and  I was  alone. 


CHAPTER  LXXXI. 

THE  VISIT. 

Mike’s  performances  at  the  masquerade  had  doubtless  been  of 
the  most  distinguished  character,  and  demanded  a compensating 
period  of  repose,  for  he  did  not  make  his  appearance  the  entire 
morning.  Toward  noon,  however,  the  door  from  the  garden 
gently  opened,  and  I heard  a step  on  the  stone  terrace,  and 
something  which  sounded  to  my  ears  like  the  clank  of  a saber. 
I lifted  my  head,  and  saw  Fred  Power  beside  me. 

I shall  spare  my  readers  the  recital  of  my  friend,  which,  how- 
ever more  full  and  explanatory  of  past  events,  contained  in 
reality  little  more  than  Mickey  Free  had  already  told  me.  In 
fine,  he  informed  me  that  our  army,  by  a succession  of  retreat- 
ing movements,  had  deserted  the  northern  provinces,  and  now 
occupied  the  intrenched  lines  of  Torres  Vedras.  That  Massena, 
with  a powerful  force,  was  still  in  march;  reinforcements  daily 
pouring  in  upon  him — and  every  expectation  pointing  to  the 
probability  that  he  would  attempt  to  storm  our  position. 

‘‘  The  wise  heads,”  remarked  Power,  “ talk  of  our  speedy  em- 
barkation; the  sanguine  and  hot-headed  rave  of  a great  victory, 
and  the  retreat  of  Massena;  but  I was  up  at  headquarters  last 
week,  with  dispatches,  and  saw  Lord  Wellington  myself.” 

‘‘Well,  what  did  you  make  out?  did  he  drop  any  hint  of  his 
own  views  ?” 

“ Faith,  I can'll  say  he  did;  he  asked  me  some  questions  about 
the  troops  just  landed — he  spoke  a little  of  the  commissary  de- 
partment— damned  the  blankets — said  that  green  forage  was  bad 
food  for  the  artillery  horses — sent  me  an  English  paper  to  read 
about  the  O.  P.  riots,  and  said  the  harriers  would  throw  off 
about  six  o’clock,  and  that  he  hoped  to  see  me  at  dinner.” 

I could  not  restrain  a laugh  at  Power’s  catalogue  of  his  lord- 
ships  topics.  “So,”  said  I,  “he  at  least  does  not  take  any 
gloomy  views  of  our  present  situation.” 

“ Who  can  tell  what  he  thinks?  he's  re^dy  to  fight,  if  fighting 
will  do  anything — and  to  retreat  if  that  be  better.  But  that 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


59 


W 


he’ll  sleep  an  hour  less,  or  drink  a glass  of  claret  more-come 
what  will  of  it — I’ll  believe  from  no  man  living.” 

“ We’ve  lost  one  gallant  thing  in  my  case,  Charley,”  resumed 
Power.  Busaco  was,  I’m  told,  a glorious  day,  and  our  people 
were  in  the  heat  of  it.  So  that  if  we  do  leave  the  Peninsula 
now — that  will  be  a confounded  chagrin.  Not  for  you,  my  poor 
fellow,  for  you  could  not  stir;  but  I was  so  cursed  foolish  to  take 
the  staff  appointment,  thus  one  folly  ever  entails  another.” 

There  was  a tone  of  bitterness  in  which  these  words  were 
uttered  that  left  no  doubt  upon  my  mind;  some  arriere  pensee 
remained  lurking  behind  them.  My  eyes  met  his — he  bit  his 
lip,  and  coloring  deeply,  rose  from  the  chair  and  walked  toward 
the  window.  The  chance  allusion  oCmy  man  Mike  flashed  upon 
me  at  the  moment,  and  I dared  not  trust  myself  to  break  silence. 
I now  thought  I could  trace  in  my  friend’s  manner  less  of  that 
gay  and  careless  buoyancy  which  ever  marked  him.  There  was 
a tone,  it  seemed,  of  more  grave  and  somber  character,  and  even 
when  he  jested,  the  smile  his  features  bore  was  not  his  usual 
frank  and  happj"  one,  and  speedily  gave  way  to  an  expression  I 
had  never  before  remarked.  Our  silence,  which  had  now  lasted 
for  some  minutes,  was  becoming  embarrassing;  that  strange 
consciousness,  that  to  a certain  extent  we  were  reading  each 
other’s  thoughts,  made  us  both  cautious  of  breaking  it;  and, 
when,  at  length,  turning  abruptly  round,  he  asked,  “When  I 
hoped  to  be  up,  and  about  again  ?”  I felt  my  heart  relieved  from 
I knew  not  well  what  load  of  doubt  and  difficulty  that  oppressed 
it.  We  chatted  on  for  some  little  time  longer,  the  news  of 
Lisbon,  and  the  daily  gossip  furnishing  our  topics. 

“Plenty  of  gayety,  Charley;  dinners  and  balls  to  no  end;  so 
get  well,  my  boy,  and  make  the  most  of  it.” 

“Yes,”  I replied,  “I’ll  do  my  best;  but  be  assured  the  first 
use  I’ll  make  of  health  will  be  to  join  the  regiment.  I am  heart- 
ily ashamed  of  myself  for  all  I have  lost  already — though  not 
altogether  my  fault.” 

“And  will  you  really  join  at  once?”  said  Power,  with  a look 
of  eager  anxiety  I could  not  possibly  account  for, 

“ Of  course  I will — what  have  I — ^what  can  I have  to  detain 
me  here  ?” 

What  reply  he  w^as  about  to  make  at  this  moment  I know  not 
— but  the  door  opened,  and  Mike  announced  Sh’  GeoTge  Dash- 
w^ood. 

“ Gently,  my  worthy  man,  not  so  loud  if  you  please,”  said  the 
mild  voice  of  the  General  as  he  stepped  noiselessly  across  the 
room,  evidently  shocked  at  the  indiscreet  tone  of  my  follower. 
“ Ah,  Power,  you  here!  and  our  poor  friend — how  is  ho-?” 

“Able  to  answer  for  himself  at  last,  Sir  George,”  said  I,  grasp- 
ing his  proffered  hand. 

“ My  poor  lad,  you’ve  had  a long  bout  of  it;  but  you’ve  saved 
your  arm,  and  that’s  well  worth  the  lost  time.  Well!  I’ve  come 
to  bring  you  good  news;  there’s  been  a very  sharp  cavalry  affair, 
and  our  fellows  have  been  the  conquerors.” 

“There  again,  Power;  listen  to  that;  we  are  losing  every- 
thing!” 


60 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


‘‘  Not  so;  not  so,  my  boy,”  said  Sir  George,  smiling  blandly  but 
archly.  “There  are  conquests  to  be  wonjhere  as  well  as  there;  and, 
ill  your  present  state,  I rather  think  you  better  fitted  for  such  as 
these.”  Power’s  brow  grew  clouded,  he  essayed  a smile,  but  it 
failed ; and  he  rose  and  hurried  toward  the  window. 

As  for  me,  my  confusion  must  have  led  to  a very  erroneous 
impression  of  my  real  feelings;  and  I perceived  Sir  George  anx- 
ious to  turn  the  channel  of  the  conversation. 

“You  see  but  little  of  your  host,  O’Malley,”  he  resumed;  “he 
is  ever  from  home;  but  I believe  nothing  could  be  kinder  than 
his  arrangements  for  you.  You  are  aware  that  he  kidnapped 
you  from  us!  I had  sent  Forbes  over  to  bring  you  to  us,  your 
room  was  prepared,  everything  in  readiness,  when  he  met  your 
man,  Mike,  setting  forth  upon  a mule,  who  toM  him  you  had 
just  taken  your  departure  for  the  villa.  We  both  had  our  claim 
upon  you,  and,  I believe,  pretty  much  on  the  same  score.  By 
the  bye,  you  have  not  seen  Lucy  since  your  arrival.  I never  knew 
it  till  yesterday,  when  I asked  if  she  did  not  find  you  altered.” 

I blundered  out  some  absurd  reply — blushed,  corrected  myself, 
and  got  confused,  which  Sir  George  attributed  doubtless  to 
my  weak  state.  He  rose  soon  after,  and  taking  Power  along  with 
him,  remarked,  as  he  left  the  room,  “ we  are  too  much  for  him 
yet — I see  that;  so  we’ll  leave  him  quiet  some  time  longer.” 
Thanking  him  in  my  heart  for  his  true  appreciation  of  my  state, 
I sunk  back  upon  my  pillow  to  think  over  all  I had  heard  and 
seen. 

“Well,  Mister  Charles,”  said  Mike,  as  he  came  forward  with 
a smile,  “ I suppose  you  lieard  the  news  ? The  Fourteenth  beat 
the  French  down  at  Merca  there,  and  took  seventy  prisoners; 
but,  sure,  it’s  little  good  it’ll  do  after  all.” 

“And  why  not,  Mike?” 

“ Musha,  isn’t  Boney  coming  himself?  He’s  bringing  all  the 
Hoosians  down  with  him,  and  going  to  destroy  us  entirely.” 

“Not  at  all,  man;  you  mistake.  He’s  nothing  to  do  with 
Russia,  and  has  quite  enough  on  his  hands  at  this  moment.” 

“God  grant  it  was  truth  you  were  talking!  but  you  see  I 
•^ead  it  myself  in  the  papers,  or  Sergeant  Hagarty  did,  which  is 
^he  same  thing — that  he’s  coming  with  the  Cusacks.” 

“With  who?  with  what?” 

“With  the  Cusacks.” 

“ What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ? Who  are  they  ?” 

“ Oh,  Tower  of  Ivory!  did  you  never  hear  of  the  Cusacks, 
with  the  red  beards  and  the  red  breeches,  and  long  poles  with 
pike-heads  on  them,  that  does  all  the  devilment  on  horseback — 
spiking  and  spitting  the  people  like  larks  ?” 

“ The  Cossacks,  is  it,  you  mean!  The  Cossacks!” 

“Ay,  just  so,  the  Cusacks.  They’re  from  Care  Island  and 
thereabouts;  and  there’s  more  of  them  in  Meath.  They’re  my 
mother’s  people,  and  was  always  real  devils  for  fighting.” 

I burst  out  into  an  immoderate  fit  of  laughing  at  Mike’s  ety- 
mology, which  thus  converted  Hetman  Platoff  into  a Galway 
man. 

“Oh,  murder,  isn’ii  it  cruel  to  hear  you  laugh  that  way  ? 


CHARLES  O'^M  ALLEY. 


61 


There,  now,  alannah!  be  aisj,  and  I’ll  tell  you  more  news.  WeVe 
the  house  to  ourselves  to-day.  The  ould  gentleman’s  down  at 
Behlem,  and  the  daughter's  in  Lisbon,  making  great  preparation 
for  a grand  ball  they’re  to  give  when  you’re  quite  well.” 

I hope  I shall  be  with  the  army  in  a few  days,  Mike;  and 
certainly  if  I’m  able  to  move  about.  I'll  not  remain  longer  at 
Lisbon.” 

‘‘  Arrah,  don’t  say  so,  now!  When  was  you  ever  so  comfort- 
able? Upon  my  conscience,  it’s  more  like  Paradise  than  any- 
thing else.  If  ye  see  the  dinner  we  sit  down  to  every  day:  and 
as  for  drink — if  it  wasn’t  that  I sleep  on  a ground  floor,  I’d  sel- 
dom see  a blanket.  ” 

“Well,  certainly,  Mike,  I agree  with  you,  these  are  hard 
things  to  tear  ourselves  away  from.” 

“Aren’t  they  now,  sir?  and  then  Miss  Catherine,  I’m  teacliing 
her  Irish.” 

“ Teaching  her  Irish!  for  Heaven’s  sake  what  use  can  she  make 
of  it?” 

“Ah,  the  creature  she  doesn’t  know  better;  and,  as  she  was 
always  bothering  me  to  learn  her  English,  I promised  one  day 
to  do  it;  but  ye  see  somehow  I never  was  very  proficient  in 
strange  tongues;  so  I thought  to  myself  Irish  will  do  as  well. 
So  you  perceive,  we’i'e  taking  a course  of  Irish  literature,  as  Mr. 
Lynch  says  in  Athlone;  and,  upon  my  conscience,  she’s  an  apt 
scholar.” 

“ ‘Good-morning  to  you  Katey,’  says  Mr.  Power  to  her  the 
other  day,  as  she  passed  through  the  hall.  ‘ Good-morning,  my 
dear,  I hear  you  speak  English  perfectly  now?’ 

“ ‘ Honia  mon  dioul  P says  she,  making  a courtesy. 

“ Be  the  powers,  I thought  he’d  die  with  the  laughing. 

“ ‘Well,  my  dear,  I hope  you  don’t  mean  it — do  you  know 
what  you’re  saying  ?’ 

“ ‘ Honor  bright.  Major!’  says  I;  ‘ honor  bright!’  and  I gave 
him  a wink  at  the  same  time. 

“ ‘Oh,  that’s  it!’  said  he,  ‘is  it?’  and  so  he  went  off  holding 
his  hands  to  his  sides  with  the  bare  laughing,  and  your  honor 
knows  it  wasn’t  a blessing  she  wished  him,  for  all  that.” 


CHAPTER  LXXXII. 

THE  CONFESSION. 

What  a strange  position  this  of  mine,  thought  I,  a few  morn- 
ings after  the  events  detailed  in  the  last  chapter.  How  very 
fascinating  in  some  respects — how  full  of  all  the  charm  of  ro- 
mance, and  how  confoundedly  difficult  to  see  one’s  way  through! 

To  understand  my  cogitation  right,  figurez  voiis,  my  dear 
reader,  a large  and  splendidly  furnislied  drawing-ioom,  from 
one  end  of  which  an  orangery  in  full  blossom  opens;  from  the 
other  side  is  seen  a delicious  little  boudoir,  where  books,  bronzes, 
pictures,  and  statues,  in  all  the  artistic  disorder  of  a lady’s 
sanctum,  are  bathed  in  a deep  purple  light  from  a stained  glass 
window  of  the  thirteenth  century. 

At  a small  table  beside  the  wood  fire,  whose  mellow  light  is 


92 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


flirting  with  the  sunbeams  upon  the  carpet,  stands  an  antique 
silver  breakfast  service,  which  none  but  the  hand  of  Benvenuto 
could  have  chiseled;  beside  it  sits  a girl,  young  and  beautiful, 
her  dark  eyes,  beaming  beneath  their  long  lashes,  are  fixed  with 
an  expression  of  watchful  interest  upon  a pale  and  sickly  youth 
who,  lounging  upon  a sofa  opposite,  is  carelessly  turning  over 
the  leaves  of  a new  journal,  or  gazing  steadfastly  on  the  fretted 
gothic  of  the  ceiling,  while  his  thoughts  are  traveling  many 
a mile  away.  The  lady  being  the  Senora  Inez;  the  nonchalant 
invalid,  your  unworthy  acquaintance,  Charles  O’Malley. 

What  a strange  position,  to  be  sure. 

‘‘  Then  you  are  not  equal  to  this  ball  to-night?”  said  she,  after 
a pause  of  some  minutes. 

I turned  as  she  spoke;  her  words  had  struck  audibly  upor 
my  ear — but,  lost  in  my  reverie,  I could  not  repeat  my  own 
fixed  thought — how  strange  to  be  so  situated! 

“You  are  really  very  tiresome,  senor,  I assure  you,  you  are. 
I have  Deen  giving  you  a most  elegant  description  of  the  Casino 
fete,  and  the  beautiful  costumes  of  our  Lisbon  belles,  but  I can 
get  nothing  from  you  but  this  muttered  something  which  may 
be  very  shocking  for  aught  I know.  I’m  sure  your  friend  Major 
Power  would  be  much  more  attentive  tome,  that  is,”  added  she, 
archly,  “ if  Miss  Dash  wood  were  not  present.” 

“ What — why — you  don’t  mean  that  there  is  anything  there — 
that  Power  is  paying  attention  to ” . 

“ Madre  divina,  how  that  seems  to  interest  you,  and  how  red 
you  are;  if  it  were  not  that  you  never  met  her  before,  and  that 
your  acquaintance  did  not  seem  to  make  rapid  progress,  then  I 
should  say  you  are  in  love  with  her  yourself.” 

I had  to  laugh  at  this,  but  felt  my  face  blushing  more  and 
more.  “And  so,”  said  I,  affecting  a careless  and  indifferent 
tone,  “ the  gay  Fred  Power  is  smitten  at  last.” 

“ Was  it  so  very  difficult  a thing  to  acoomplish?”  said  she, 

“ He  seems  to  say  so,  at  least.  And  the  lady,  how  does  she 
ft  ppear  to  receive  his  attentions  ?” 

“ Oh,  I should  say  with  evident  pleasure  and  satisfaction,  as 
ftll  girls  do  the  advances  of  men  they  don’t  care  for,  nor  intend 
to  care  for.” 

“ Indeed,”  said  I,  slowly,  “indeed,  senora,”  looking  into  her 
eyes  as  I spoke,  as  if  to  read  if  the  lesson  were  destined  for  my 
benefit. 

‘‘There,  don’t  stare  so!  every  one  knows  that.” 

“ So  you  don’t  think,  then,  that  Lucy — I mean  Miss  Dash  wood 
why  are  you  laughing  so  ?” 

“ How  can  I help  it?  your  calling  her  Lucy  is  so  good,  I wish 
she  heard  it;  she's  the  very  proudest  girl  I ever  knew.” 

“ But  to  come  back;  you  really  think  she  does  not  care  for 
him?” 

“ No  more  than  for  you;  and  I may  be  pardoned  for  the  simile, 
having  seen  your  meeting.  But  let  me  give  you  the  news  of  our 
own  fete,  Saturday  is  the  day  fixed;  and  you  must  be  quite  well 
—I  insist  upon  it.  Miss  Dash  wood  has  promised  to  come — no 


CHARLES  aMALLEV 


small  concession;  for,  after  all,  she  has  never  once  been  here 
since  the  day  you  frightened  her.  I can’t  help  laughing  at  my 
blunder — the  two  people  I had  promised  myself  should  fall  des= 
perately  in  love  with  each  other,  and  w-ho  will  scarcely  meet.” 

“ But  I trusted,”  said  I pettishly,  “ that  you  were  not  disposed 
to  resign  your  o.wn  interest  in  me  ?” 

“Neither  was  I,”  said  she  with  an  easy  smile,  “except  that  I 
have  so  many  admirers  I might  even  spare  to  my  friends.:, 
though,  after  all,  I should  be  sorry  to  lose  you— I like  you.” 

“ Yes,”  said  I,  half  bitterly,  “ as  girls  do  those  they  never  in* 
tend  to  care  for;  is  it  not  so?” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps  yes,  and  perhaps But  is  it  going  to  rain  ? HoW 

provoking!  and  I have  ordered  my  horse.  Well,  Signor  Carlos, 
I leave  you  to  your  delightful  newspaper,  and  all  the  magnifi- 
cent descriptions  of  battles,  and  sieges  and  skirmishes,  for  which 
you  seem  doomed  to  pine  without  ceasing.  There,  don’t  kiss  my 
hand  twice,  that’s  not  right.” 

“ Well  let  me  begin  again ” 

“ I shall  not  breakfast  with  you  any  more;  but  tell  me,  am  I 
to  order  a costume  for  you  in  Lisbon;  or  will  you  arrange  all  that 
yourself?  You  must  come  to  ihe  fete,  you  know.” 

“If  you  would  be  so  very  kind.” 

“ I will  then  be  so  very  kind,  and,  once  more,  adios,”  So  say- 
ing, and  with  a sh'ght  motion  of  her  hand,  she  smiled  a good-bye, 
and  left  me. 

What  a lovely  girl!  thought  I as  I rose  and  walked  to  the  win- 
dow, muttering  to  myself  Othello’s  line: 

“When  I love  the  not,  chaos  is  come  again!’’ 

In  fact,  it  was  the  perfect  expression  of  my  feeling — the  only 
solution  to  all  the  difiiculties  surrounding  me  being  to  fall  des- 
perately, irretrievably  in  love  with  the  fair  senora,  which,  all 
things  considered,  was  not  a very  desperate  resource  for  a gen- 
tleman in  trouble.  As  I thought  over  the  hopelessness  of  one 
attachment,  I turned  calmly  to  consider  all  the  favorable  points 
of  the  other.  She  was  truly  beautiful,  attractive  in  every  sense; 
her  manner  most  fascinating,  and  her  disposition,  so  far  as  I 
could  pronounce,  perfectly  amiable.  I felt  already  something 
more  than  interest  about  her;  how  very  easy  would  be  the  tran- 
sition to  a stronger  feeling.  There  was  an  eclat,  too,  about  being 
her  accepted  lover,  that  had  its  charm.  She  was  the  belle  par 
excellence  of  Lisbon;  and  then  a sense  of  pique  crossed  my  mind 
as  I reflected  what  would  Lucy  say  of  him  whom  she  had  slight- 
ed and  insulted,  when  he  became  the  husband  of  the  beautiful 
millionaire  Senora  Inez. 

As  my  meditations  had  reached  thus  far,  the  door  opened 
stealthily,  and  Catherine  appeared,  her  finger  upon  her  lips,  and 
her  gesture  indicating  caution.  She  carried  on  her  arm  a mass 
of  drapery  covered  by  a large  mantle,  which,  throwing  off  as 
she  entered,  she  displayed  before  me  a rich  blue  domino,  with 
silver  embroidery.  It  was  large  and  loose  in  its  folds,  so  as 
thoroughly  to  conceal  the  figure  of  any  wearer.  This  she  held 
up  before  me  for  an  instant  without  speaking,  when  at  lengthy 
eeeing  my  curiosity  fully  excited,  she  said: 


64 


CHARLES  0\MALLEY. 


“ This  is  the  senora’s  domino.  I should  be  ruined  if  she  knew 
I showed  it;  but  I promised — that  is,  I told ” 

‘‘  Yes,  yes,  I understand;’’  relieving  her  embarrassment  about 
the  source  of  her  civilities;  “ go  on.” 

“Well,  there  are  several  others  like  it,  but  with  this  small 
difference,  instead  of  a carnation,  which  all  the  others  have  em- 
broidered upon  the  cuff,  I have  made  a rose,  you  perceive. 
La  Senora  knows  nothing  of  this:  none  save  yourself  know  it. 
I’m  sure  I may  trust  you  with  the  secret.” 

“ Fear  not  in  the  least,  Catherine;  you  have  rendered  me  a 
great  service.  Let  me  look  at  it  once  more;  ah,  there  is  no 
difficulty  in  detecting  it.  And  you  are  certain  she  is  unaware 
of  it?” 

“ Perfectly  so;  she  has  several  other  costumes,  but  in  this  one 
I know  she  intends  some  surprise;  so  be  upon  your  guard.” 

With  these  words,  carefully  once  more  concealing  the  rich 
dress  beneath  the  mantle,  she  withdrew;  while  I strolled  forth 
to  wonder  what  mystery  might  lie  beneath  this  scheme;  and 
speculate  how  far  I myself  was  included  in  the  plot  she  spoke  of. 


For  the  few  days  which  succeeded  I passed  my  time  much 
alone.  The  senora  was  but  seldom  at  home;  and  I remarked 
that  Power  rarely  came  to  see  me.  A strange  feeling  of  half- 
coolness had  latterly  grown  between  us,  and,  instead  of  the  open 
confidence  we  formerly  indulged  in  when  together,  we  appeared 
now  rather  to  chat  over  things  of  mere  every-day  interest  than 
our  own  immediate  plans  and  prospects.  There  was  a kind  of 
preoccupation,  too,  in  his  manner,  that  struck  me;  his  mind 
seemed  ever  straying  from  the  topics  he  talked  of  to  something 
remote,  and  altogether  he  was  no  longer  the  frank  and  reckless 
dragoon  I had  ever  known  him.  What  could  be  the  meaning  of 
this  change?  Had  he  found  out  by  any  accident  that  I was  to 
blame  in  my  conduct  toward  Lucy — had  any  erroneous  impres- 
sion of  my  interview  with  her  reached  his  ears?  This  was  most 
improbable;  besides,  there  was  nothing  in  that  to  draw  down  his 
censure  or  condemnation,  however  represented;  and  was  it  that 
he  was  himself  in  love  with  her — that,  devoted  heart  and  soul  to 
Lucy,  he  regarded  me  as  a successful  rival,  preferred  before  him! 
Oh!  how  could  I have  so  long  blinded  myself  to  the  fact  ? This 
was  the  true  solution  of  the  whole  difficulty.  I had  more  than 
once  suspected  this  to  be  so;  now  all  the  circumstances  of  proof 
})Oured  in  upon  me.  I called  to  mind  his  agitated  manner  the 
night  of  my  arrival  in  Lisbon,  his  thousand  questions  concerning 
the  reasons  of  my  furlough;  and  then  lately  the  look  of  unfeign- 
ed pleasure  with  which  he  heard  me  resolve  to  join  my  regiment 
the  moment  I was  sufficiently  recovered.  I also  remembered 
how  assiduously  he  pressed  his  intimacy  with  the  senora,  Lucy’s 
dearest  friend  here;  his  continual  visits  at  the  villa;  those  long 
walks  in  the  garden,  where  his  very  look  betokened  some  confi- 
dential mission  of  the  heart.  Yes,  there  was  no  doubt  of  it;  he 
loved  Lucy  Dash  wood!  Alas!  there  seemed  to  be  no  end  to  the 
complication  of  my  misfortunes;  one  by  onei  appeared  fated  to 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


65 


(ose  whatever  had  a hold  upon  my  affections,  and  to  stand  alone 
unloved  and  uncared  for  in  the  world.  My  thoughts  turned  to- 
ward the  senora,  but  I could  not  deceive  myself  into  any  hope 
there.*  My  own  feelings  were  untouched,  and  hers  I felt  to  be 
equally  so.  Young  as  I was,  there  was  no  mistaking  the  easy 
smile  of  coquetry,  the  merry  laugh  of  flattered  vanity,  for  a 
deeper  and  holier  feeling.  And  then  I did  not  wish  it  otherwise. 
One  only  had  taught  me  to  feel  how  ennobling,  how  elevating 
in  all  its  impulses  can  be  a deep-rooted  passion  for  a young  and 
beautiful  girl!  from  her  eyes  alone  had  I caught  the  inspiration 
that  made  me  throb  for  glory  and  distinction.  I could  not 
transfer  the  allegiance  of  my  heart,  since  it  had  taught  that  very 
heart  to  beat  high  and  proudly.  Lucy,  lost  to  me  forever  as  she 
must  be,  was  still  more  than  any  other  woman  ever  could  be. 
All  the  past  clung  to  her  memory,  all  the  prestige  of  the  future 
must  point  to  it  also. 

And  Power;  why  had  he  not  trusted,  why  had  he  not  con- 
fided in  me?  Was  this  like  my  old  and  tried  friend?  Alas!  I 
was  forgetting  that  in  his  eye  I was  the  favored  rival,  and  not 
the  despised,  rejected  suitor. 

II;  is  past  now,  thought  I,  as  I rose  and  walked  into  the  gar- 
den; the  dream  that  made  life  a fairy  tale  is  dispelled;  the  cold 
reality  of  the  world  is  before  me,  and  my  path  lies  a.  lonely  and 
solitary  one.  My  first  resolution  was  to  see  Power,  and  relieve 
his  mind  of  any  uneasiness  as  regarded  my  pretensions;  they  ex- 
isted no  longer.  As  for  me,  I was  no  obstacle  to  his  happiness. 
It  was  then  but  fair  and  honorable  that  I should  tell  him  so;  this 
done,  I should  leave  Lisbon  at  once.  The  cavalry  had  for  the 
most  part  been  ordered  to  the  rear;  still  there  was  always  some- 
thing going  forward  at  the  outposts. 

The  idea  of  active  service,  the  excitement  of  a campaigning 
life  cheered  me,  and  I advanced  along  the  dark  alley  of  tbe  gar- 
den with  a lighter  and  freer  heart.  My  resolves  were  not  des- 
tined to  meet  delay;  as  I turned  the  angle  of  a walk.  Power  was 
before  me;  he  was  leaning  against  a tree,  his  hands  crossed 
upon  his  bosom,  his  head  bowed  forward,  and  his  whole  air  and 
attitude  betokening  deep  reflection. 

He  started  as  I came  up,  and  seemed  almost  to  change  color. 

“Well,  Charley,”  said  he,  after  a moment’s  pause,  “you  look 
better  this  morning;  how  goes  the  arm  ?” 

“ The  arm  is  ready  for  service  again,  and  its  owner  most 
anxious  for  it.  Do  you  know,  Fred,  I’m  thoroughly  weary  of 
this  life?” 

“ They’re  little  better,  however,  at  the  lines.  The  French  are  in 
position,  but  never  adventure  a movement,  and,  except  some 
few  affairs  at  the  pickets,  there  is  really  nothing  to  do.” 

“ No  matter;  remaining  here  can  never  serve  one’s  interests; 
and,  besides,  I have  accomplished  what  I came  for  ” 

I was  about  to  add  “ the  restoration  of  my  health,”  when  he 
suddenly  interrupted  me,  eying  me  fixedly  as  he  spoke: 

“Indeed!  indeed!  is  that  so?” 

“Yes,”  said  I,  half  puzzled  at  the  tone  and  manner  of  the 
speech;  “I  can  join  now  when  I please;  meanwhile,  Fred,  I 


66 


CHARLES  a M ALLEY. 


have  been  thinking  of  you.  Yes,  don’t  be  surprised;  at  the 
very  moment  we  met,  you  were  in  my  thoughts.” 

I took  his  arm  as  I said  this,  and  led  him  down  the  alley, 

“We  are  too  old,  and  I trust,  too  true  friends,  Fred,  to 
have  secrets  from  each  other,  and  yet  we  have  been  playing 
this  silly  game  for  some  weeks  past;  now,  my  dear  fellow,  I 
have  yours,  and  ’tis  only  fair  justice  you  should  have  mine,  and 
faith  "l  feel  you’d  have  discovered  it  long  since  had  your 
thoughts  been  as  free  as  I have  known  them  to  be.  Fred,  you 
are  in  love;  there,  don’t  wince,  man,  I know  it;  but  hear  me 
out.  You  believe  me  to  be  so  also;  nay,  more,  you  think  that  my 
chances  of  success  are  better,  strongerg  than  your  own;  learn, 
then,  that  I have  none,  absolutely  none.  Don’t  interrupt  me 
now,  for  this  avowal  cuts  me  deeply;  my  own  heart  alone 
knows  what  I suffer  as  I record  my  wrecked  fortunes,  but  I 
repeat  it,  my  hopes  are  at  an  end  forever!  but,  Fred  my  boy, 
I cannot  lose  my  friend,  too.  If  I have  been  the  obstacle  to 
your  path,  I am  so  no  more.  Ask  me  not  why,  it  is  enough 
that  I speak  in  all  truth  and  sincerity.  Ere  three  days  I shall 
leave  this,  and  with  it  all  the  hopes  that  once  beamed  upon 
my  fortunes,  and  all  the  happiness,  nay,  not  all  my  boy,  for  I 
feel  some  thrill  at  my  heart  yet,  as  I think  that  I have  been 
true  to  you.” 

I know  not  what  more  I spoke,  nor  how  he  replied  to  me.  I 
felt  the  warm  grasp  of  his  hand,  I saw  his  delighted  smile; 
the  words  of  grateful  acknowledgments  his  lips  uttered,  con- 
veyed but  an  imperfect  meaning  to  my  ear,  and  I remembered 
no  more. 

The  courage  which  sustained  me  for  the  moment  sunk  grad- 
ually as  I [meditated  over  my  avowal,  and  I could  scarce  help 
accusing  Power  of  a breach  of  friendship  for  exacting  a confes- 
sion which,  in  reality,  I had  volunteered  to  give  him.  How 
Lucy  herself  would  think  of  my  conduct  was  ever  occurring  to 
my  thoughts,  and  I felt,  as  I ruminated  upon  the  conjectures  it 
might  give  rise  to,  how  much  more  likely  a favorable  opinion 
might  now  be  formed  of  me,  than  when  such  an  estimation 
could  have  crowned  me  with  delight.  Yes,  thought  I,  she  will 
at  last  learn  to  know  him,  who  loved  her  with  truth  and  with 
devoted  affection;  and,  when  the  blight  of  all  his  hopes  is  ac- 
complished, the  fair  fame  of  his  fidelity  will  be  proved.  The 
march,  the  bivouac,  the  battle-field,  are  now  all  to  me;  and  the 
campaign*alone  presents  a prospect  which  may  fill  up  the  aching 
void  that  disappointed  and  ruined  hopes  have  left  behind 
them. 

How  I longed  for  the  loud  call  of  the  trumpet,  the  clash  of  the 
steel,  the  tramp  of  the  war-horse,  though  the  proud  distinction 
of  a soldier’s  life  were  less  to  me  in  the  distance,  than  the  mad 
and  whirlwind  passion  of  a charge,  and  the  loud  din  of  the  roll- 
ing artillery. 

it  was  only  some  hours  after  as  I sat  alone  in  my  chamber, 
that  all  the  circumstances  of  our  meeting  came  back  clearly  to 
my  memory,  and  I could  not  help  muttering  to  myself,  “ It  is 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


67 


indeed  a hard  lot,  that  to  cheer  the  heart  of  my  friend  I must 
bear  witness  to  the  despair  that  sheds  darkness  on  my  own.” 


CHAPTER  LXXXIIT. 

MY  CHARGER. 

Although  I felt  my  heart  relieved  of  a heavy  load  by  the  con- 
fession I had  made  to  Power,  yet  still  I shrank  from  meeting 
him  for  some  days  after;  a kind  of  fear  lest  he  should  in  any 
way  recur  to  our  conversation  continually  beset  me,  and  I felt 
that  the  courage  which  bore  me  up  for  my  first  effort  would 
desert  me  on  the  next  occasion. 

My  determination  to  join  my  regiment  was  now  made  up,  and 
I sent  forward  a resignation  of  my  appointment  to  Sir  George 
Dash^vood’s  staff,  which  I had  never  been  in  health  to  fulfill,  and 
commenced  with  energy  all  my  preparations  for  a speedy  de- 
parture. 

The  reply  to  my  rather  formal  letter  was  a most  kind  note 
Written  by  himself.  He  regretted  the  unhappy  cause  which  had 
so  long  separated  us,  and  though  wishing,  as  he  expressed  it,  to 
have  me  near  him,  perfectly  approved  of  my  resolution. 

“Active  service  alone,  my  dear  boy,  can  ever  place  you  in  the 
position  you  ought  to  occupy,  and  I rejoice  the  more  at  your  de- 
cision in  this  matter,  as  I feared  the  truth  of  certain  reports 
here,  which  attributed  to  you  other  plans  than  those  w^hich  a 
campaign  suggests.  My  mind  is  now  easy  on  this  score,  and  I 
pray  you  forgive  me  if  my  congratulations  are  mal  apropos 

After  some  hints  for  \ny  future  management,  and  a promise  of 
some  letters  to  his  friends  at  headquarters,  he  concludes: 

“ As  this  climate  does  not  seem  to  suit  my  daughter,  I have 
applied  for  a change,  and  am  in  daily  hope  of  obtaining  it. 
Before  going,  however,  I must  beg  your  acceptance  of  the 
charger  which  my  groom  will  deliver  to  your  servant  with  this. 
I was  so  struck  with  his  figure  and  action,  that  I purchased  him 
before  leaving  England  without  well  knowing  why  or  wherefore. 
Pray  let  him  see  some  service  under  your  auspices,  which  he  was 
most  unlikely  to  do  under  mine.  He  has  plenty  of  bone  to  be  a 
weight-carrier,  and  they  tell  me,  also,  that  he  has  speed  enough 
for  anything.” 

Mike’s  voice  in  the  lawn  beneath  interrupted  my  reading  fur- 
ther, and  on  looking  out  I perceived  him  and  Sir  George  Dash- 
wood’s  servant  standing  beside  a large  and  striking-looking 
horse,  which  they  were  both  examining  with  all  the  critical  ac- 
curacy of  adepts. 

“ Arrah,  isn’t  he  a darling,  a real  beauty,  every  inch  of  him?” 

“That  ’ere  splint  don’t  signify  nothing;  he  aren’t  the  worse  of 
it,”  said  the  English  groom. 

“ Of  coorse  it  doesn’t,”  replied  Mike.  “ What  a forehand!  and 
the  legs,  clean  as  a whip.” 

“There’s  the  best  of  him,  though,”  interrupted  the  other, 
patting  the  strong  hind-quarters  with  his  hand. 

“There’s  the  stuff  to  push  him  along  through  heavy  ground 
and  carry  him  over  timber.” 


68 


CHARLES  O’MALLEY 


‘‘  Or  a stone  wall,'’  said  Mike,  thinking  of  Galway. 

My  own  impatience  to  survey  my  present  had  now  brought 
be  into  the  conclave,  and  before  many  minutes  were  over  I had 
him  saddled,  and  was  caracoling  around  the  lawn  with  a spirit 
and  energy  I had  not  felt  for  months  long.  Some  small  fences 
lay  before  me,  and  over  these  he  carried  me  with  all  the  ease 
and  freedom  of  a trained  hunter.  My  courage  mounted  with 
the  excitement,  and  I looked  eagerly  around  for  some  more 
bold  and  dashing  leap. 

‘‘You  may  take  him  over  the  avenue  gate,”  said  the  English 
groom,  divining  with  a jockey’s  readiness  what  I looked  for; 
“ he’ll  do  it,  never  fear  him.” 

Strange  as  my  equipment  was,  an  undress  jacket  flying  loose- 
ly open,  and  a bare  head,  away  I went.  The  gate  which  the 
groom  spoke  of  was  a strongly-barred  one  of  oak  timber,  nearly 
five  feet  high — its  difficulty  as  a leap  only  consisted  in  the  wind- 
ing approach  to  it;  and  the  fact  that  it  opened  upon  a hard  road 
beyond  it. 

In  a second  or  two  a kind  of  half  fear  came  across  me.  My 
long  illness  had  unnerved  me,  and  my  limbs  felt  weak  and 
yielding — but  as  I pressed  into  the  canter,  the  secret  sympathy 
between  the  horse  and  his  rider,  shot  suddenly  through  me,  I 
pressed  my  spurs  into  his  flanks  and  dashed  him  at  it. 

Unaccustomed  to  such  treatment,  the  noble  animal  bounded 
madly  forward;  with  two  tremendous  plunges,  he  sprang  wild- 
ly into  the  air,  and  shaking  his  long  mane  with  passion,  stretcli- 
ed  out  at  the  gallop. 

My  own  blood  boiled  now  as  tempestuously  as  his;  and  with  a 
shout  of  reckless  triumph,  I rose  him  at  the  gate;  just  at  the  in- 
stant two  figures  appeared  before  it — the  copse  had  concealed 
their  approach  hitherto — but  they  stood  now,  as  if  transfixed,  the 
wild  attitude  of  the  horse,  the  not  less  wild  cry  of  his  rider,  had 
deprived  them  for  the  time  of  all  energy;  and  overcome  by  the 
sudden  danger,  they  seemed  rooted  to  the  ground.  What  I said, 
spoke,  begged,  or  imprecated.  Heaven  knows — not  I;  but  they 
stirred  not  I one  moment  more,  and  they  must  lie  trampled  be- 
neath my  horse’s  hoofs — he  was  already  on  his  haunches  for  the 
bound;  when  wheeling  half  aside,  I faced  him  at  the  wall.  It 
was  at  least  a foot  higher,  and  of  solid  stone  masonry,  and  as  I 
did  so,  I felt  that  I was  periling  my  life  to  save  theirs.  One 
vigorous  dash  of  the  spur  I gave  him  as  I lifted  him  to  the  leap 
— he  bounded  beneath  it  quick  as  lightning — still  with  a spring 
like  a rocket,  he  rose  into  the  air,  cleared  the  wall,  and  stood 
trembling  and  frightened  on  the  road  outside. 

“Safe,  by  Jupiter,  and  splendidly  done  too,”  cried  a voice 
near  me;  that  I immediately  recognized  as  Sir  George  Dash- 
wood’s. 

“ Lucy,  my  love,  look  up — Lucy,  my  dear,  there’s  no  danger 
now.  Siie  has  fainted — O’Malley,  fetch  some  water — fast.  Poor 
fellow — your  own  nerves  seem  shaken — why  you’ve  let  your 
horse  go:  come,  here  for  Heaven’s  sake — support  her  for  an  in- 
stant. I’ll  fetch  some  water.” 

It  appeared  to  m©  like  a dream.  I leaned  against  the  pillar  0^ 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


69 


the  gate — the  cold  and  death-like  features  of  Lucy  Dash  wood 
lay  motionless  on  my  arm — her  hand  falling  heavily  upon  my 
shoulder,  touched  my  cheek — the  tramp  of  my  horse,  as  he  gal- 
loped onward,  was  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  silence,  as  I 
stood  there,  gazing  steadfastly  upon  the  pale  brow  and  paler 
cheek,  down  which  a solitary  tear  was  slowly  stealing.  I know 
not  now  how  the  minutes  passed — my  memory  took  no  note  of 
time,  but  at  len^h  a gentle  tremor  thrilled  her  frame,  a slight, 
scarcely  perceptible  blush  colored  her  fair  face,  her  lips  slightly 
parted,  and  heaving  a deep  sigh,  she  looked  around  her  and  gradu- 
ally her  eyes  turned  and  met  mine.  Oh,  the  bliss  unutterable  of 
that  moment.  It  was  no  longer  the  look  of  cold  scorn  she  had  given 
me  last — the  expression  was  one  of  soft  and  speaking  gratitude; 
she  seemed  to  read  my  very  heart;  and  know  its  truth;  there  was 
atone  of  deep  and  compassionate  interest  in  the  glance;  and  for- 
getting all — everything  that  had  passed — all  save  my  unaltered, 
unalterable  love,  I kneeled  beeide  her,  and,  in  words  burn- 
ing as  my  own  heart  burned,  poured  out  my  tale  of  mingled 
sorrow  and  affection,  with  all  the  eloquence  of  passion.  I vindi- 
cated my  unshaken  faith — reconciling  the  conflicting  evidences 
with  the  proofs  I proffered  of  my  attachment.  If  my  moments 
were  measured,  I spent  them  not  idly.  I called  to  witness  how 
every  action  of  my  soldier’s  life  emanated  from  her — how  her 
few  and  chance  words  had  decided  the  character  of  my  fate,  if 
aught  of  fame  or  honor  were  my  portion,  to  her  I owed  it.  As, 
hurried  onward  by  my  ardent  hopes,  I forgot  Power  and  all 
about  him,  a step  upon  the  gravel  walk  came  rapidly  nearer, 
and  I had  but  time  to  assume  my  former  attitude  beside  Lucy, 
as  her  father  came  up. 

“Well,  Charley,  is  she  better  ? Oh,  I see  she  is;  here  we  have 
the  w^hole  household  at  our  heels;”  so  saying  he  pointed  to  a 
string  of  servants  pressing  eagerly  forward  with  every  species  of 
restorative  that  Portuguese  ingenuity  has  invented. 

The  next  moment  we  were  joined  by  the  senora,  who,  pale  with 
fear,  scarcely  seemed  less  in  need  of  assistance  than  her  friend. 

Amid  questions  innumerable — explanations  sought  for  on  all 
sides — mistakes  and  misconceptions  as  to  the  whole  occurrence 
— w^e  took  our  way  toward  the  villa,  Lucy  walking  between  Sir 
George  and  Donna  Inez,  while  I followed,  leaning  upon  Power’s 
arm. 

“ They’ve  caught  him  again,  O’Malley,”  said  the  General,  turn- 
ing half  round  to  me;  “he  seemed,  too,  as  much  frightened  as 
liny  of  us.” 

“It  is  time.  Sir  George,  I should  think  of  thanking  you.  I 
Aever  was  so  mounted  in  my  life ” 

“A  splendid  charger,  by  Jove,”  said  Power;  “but,  Charley, 
my  lad,  no  more  feats  of  this  nature,  if  you  love  me;  no  girl’s 
heart  will  stand  such  continual  assaults  as  your  winning  horse- 
manship submits  it  to.” 

I was  about  making  some  half-angry  reply,  when  he  contin- 
ued; “There,  don’t  look  sulky,  I have  news  for  you.  Quill  has 
just  arrived,  I met  him  at  Lisbon  : he  has  got  leave  of  absence 


70  CHARLES  CMALLEY. 

for  a few  days,  and  is  coming  to  our  masquerade  here  this  even- 
ing.” 

“ This  evening!”  said  I,  in  amazement;  why,  is  it  so  soon?” 

‘‘  Of  course  it  is.  Have  you  not  got  all  your  trappings  ready  ? 
The  Dashwoods  came  out  here  on  purpose  to  spend  the  day — but 
come,  I’ll  drive  you  into  town.  My  tilbury  is  ready,  and  weTl 
both  look  out  for  our  costumes.”  So  saying,  he  led  me  along 
toward  the  house,  when,  after  a rapid  change  of  my  toilet,  we 
set  out  for  Lisbon. 


CHAPTER  LXXXIV. 

MAURICE. 

It  seemed  a conceded  matter  between  Power  and  myself  that 
we  should  never  recur  to  the  conversation  we  held  in  the  garden; 
and  so,  although  we  dined  tete  a tete  that  day,  neither  of  us  vent- 
ured, by  any  allusion  the  most  distant,  to  advert  to  what  it  was 
equally  evident  was  uppermost  in  the  minds  of  both. 

All  our  endeavors,  therefore,  to  seem  easy  and  unconcerned 
were  in  vain;  a restless  anxiety  to  seem  interested  about  things 
and  persons  we  were  totally  indifferent  to,  pervaded  all  our 
essays  at  conversation.  By  degrees,  we  grew  weary  of  the  parts 
we  were  acting,  and  each  relapsed  into  a moody  silence,  think- 
ing over  his  plans  and  projects,  and  totally  forgetting  the  exist- 
ence of  the  other. 

The  decanter  was  passed  across  the  table  without  speaking, 
a half  nod  intimated  the  bottle  was  standing,  and  except  an 
occasional  malediction  upon  an  intractable  cigar  nothing  was 
heard. 

Such  was  the  agreeable  occupation  we  were  engaged  in,  when, 
toward  nine  o’clock,  the  door  opened,  and  the  great  Maurice  him- 
self stood  before  us. 

‘‘Pleasant  fellows,  upon  my  conscience,  and  jovial  over  their 
liquor;  confound  your  smoking;  that  may  do  very  well  in  a 
bivouac.  Let  us  have  something  warm!” 

Quill’s  interruption  was  a most  welcome  one  to  both  parties, 
and  we  rejoiced  with  a sincere  pleasure  at  his  coming. 

“What  shall  it  be,  Maurice  ? Port  or  sherry  mulled,  and  an 
anchovy  ?” 

“ Or  what  say  you  to  a bowl  of  bishop?”  said  I. 

“ Hurra  for  the  church,  Charley,  let  us  have  the  bishop;  and, 
not  to  disparage  Fred’s  taste,  we’ll  be  eating  the  anchovy  while 
the  liquor’s  concocting.” 

“ Well,  Maurice,  and  now  for  the  news.  How  are  matters  at 
Torres  Vedras  ? Anything  like  movement  in  that  quarter  ?” 

“ Nothing  very  remarkable;  Massena  made  a reconnoisance 
some  days  since,  and  one  of  our  batteries  threw  a shower  of  grape 
among  the  staff,  which  spoiled  the  procession,  and  sent  them 
back  in  a very  disorderly  time.  Then  we  had  a few  skirmishes 
to  the  front  with  no  great  results — a few  court-martials — bad 
grub  and  plenty  of  grumbling.” 

“ Why,  what  would  they  have?  It’s  a great  thing  to  hold  the 
French  army  in  cheek,  within  a few  miles  of  Lisbon,” 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


7r 

**  Charley,  my  man,  who  cares  twopence  for  the  French  army* 
or  Lisbon,  or  the  Portuguese,  or  the  junta,  or  anything  about  it  ? 
every  man  is  pondering  over  his  own  affairs.  One  fellow  wants 
to  get  home  again,  and  be  sent  upon  some  recruiting  station. 
Another  wishes  to  get  a step  or  two  in  promotion,  to  come  to 
Torres  Yedras,  where  even  the  grande  armee  can’t.  Then  some 
of  us  are  in  love,  and  some  more  of  us  are  in  debt.  There  is 
neither  glory  nor  profit  to  be  had;  but  here’s  the  bishop,  smok- 
ing and  steaming  with  an  odor  of  nectar.” 

“ And  our  fellows,  have  you  seen  them  lately?” 

‘‘I  dined  with  yours  on  Tuesday — was  it  Tuesday?  Yes;  I 
dined  with  them.  By  the  bye.  Sparks  was  taken  prisoner  that 
morning.” 

‘‘  Sparks  taken  prisoner!  poor  fellow,  I am  sincerely  sorry. 
Hotv  did  it  happen,  Maurice  ?” 

“ Very  simple.  Sparks  had  a forage  patrol  toward  Vieda^ 
and  set  out  early  in  the  morning  with  his  party.  It  seems  that 
they  succeeded  perfectly  and  were  returning  to  the  lines,  when 
poor  Sparks,  always  susceptible  where  the  sex  are  concerned, 
saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  a lattice  gently  open  as  he  rode  from 
the  village,  and  a very  taper  finger  make  a signal  to  him.  Drop- 
ping a little  behind  the  rest,  he  waited  till  his  men  had  de- 
bouched upon  the  road,  when,  riding  quietly  up,  he  coughed  a 
couple  of  times  to  attract  the  fair  unknown — a handkerchief 
waved  in  reply  from  the  lattice,  which  was  speedily  closed,  and 
our  valiant  cornet  a?JCordingly  dismounted  and  entered  the  house. 

“The  remainder  of  the  adventure  is  soon  told,  for,  in  a few 
seconds  after,  two  men  mounted  on  one  horse  were  seen  gallop- 
ing at  top  speed  toward  the  French  lines,  the  fqremost  being 
a French  officer  of  the  Fourth  cuirassiers — the  gentleman  with 
his  face  to  tail,  our  friend  Sparks;  the  lovely  unknown  being  a 
vielle  moustache  of  Loisson's  corps,  who  had  been  in  a skirmish 
some  days  before,  and  lay  waiting  an  opportunity  of  rejoining 
his  party.  One  of  our  prisoners  knew  this  fellow  well;  he  had 
been  promoted  from  the  ranks,  and  was  a Hercules  for  feats 
of  strength;  so  that,  after  all.  Sparks  could  not  help  himself.” 

“ Well,  I’m  really  sorry,  but,  as  you  say.  Sparks’  tender  nature 
is  always  the  ruin  of  him.” 

“ Of  him ! ay,  and  of  you — and  of  Power — and  of  myself — of  all 
of  us.  Isn’t  it  the  sweet  creatures  that  make  fools  of  us  from 
Father  Adam  down  to  Maurice  Quill;  neither  sparing  age  nor 
rank  in  the  service — half -pay  nor  the  veteran  battalion,  it’s  all 
one.  Pass  the  jug  there,  O’Shaughnessy ” 

“ Ay,  by  the  bye,  how’s  the  Major?” 

“ Charmingly;  only  a little  bit  in  a scrape  just  now.  Sir  Ar-^ 
thur — Lord  Wellington  I mean — had  him  up  for  his  fellows  being* 
caught  pillaging,  and  gave  him  a devil  of  a rowing  a few  days 
ago.” 

“ ‘Very  disorderly  corps,  yours.  Major  O’Shaughnessy,’ said 
the  General;  ‘ more  men  up  for  punishment  than  any  regiment 
in  the  service.’ 

^♦Shaugh  muttered  somethings,  but  his  voice  was  lost  in  a 


72  iJBARLES  OMALLEY. 

loud  cock-a*doo-do-doo,  that  some  old  chanticleer  set  up  at  the 
moment. 

“ ‘If  the  officers  do  their  duty,  Major  O’Shaughnessy,  these 
acts  of  insubordination  do  not  occur.’ 

“ ‘ Oock-a-doo-do-doo,’  was  the  reply.  Some  of  the  staff  found 
it  hard  not  to  laugh;  but  the  General  went  on: 

“ ‘If,  therefore,  the  practice  does  not  cease,  I’ll  draft  the  men 
into  West  India  regiments.^ 

“ ‘ Cock-a-doo-do-doo.’ 

“ ‘ And  if  any  articles  pillaged  from  the  inhabitants  are  de- 
tected in  the  quarters,  or  about  the  person  of  troops ’ 

“ ‘ Cock-a-doo-do-doo,’  screamed  louder  here  than  ever. 

“ ‘ Damn  that  cock.  Where  is  it?’ 

“ There  was  a general  look  around  on  all  sides,  which  seemed 
in  vain;  when  a tremendous  repetition  of  the  cry  resounded  from 
O’Shaughnessy’s  coat-pocket,  thus  detecting  the  valiant  Major 
himself  in  the  very  practice  of  his  corps.  There  was  no  standing 
this;  every  one  burst  out  into  a peal  of  laughing;  and  Lord  Well- 
ington himself  could  not  resist,  but  turned  away  muttering  to 
himself  as  he  went:  ‘ Damned  robbers — every  man  of  them,’  while 
a final  war-note  from  the  Major’s  pocket  closed  the  interview.” 

Confound  you,  Maurice;  you’ve  always  some  villainous  nar- 
rative or  other.  You  never  crossed  a street  for  shelter  without 
making  something  out  of  it.” 

“ True  this  time,  as  sure  as  ray  name’s  Maurice;  but  the  bowl 
is  empty !”  * 

“Never  mind,  here  comes  its  successor.  How  long  can  you 
stay  amongst  us  ?” 

“ A few  da^s  at  most.  Just  took  a run  off  to  see  the  sights; 
1 was  all  over  Lisbon  this  morning;  saw  the  Inquisition  and  the 
cells,  and  the  place  where  they  tried  the  fellows — the  kind  of 
grand  jury  room,  with  the  great  picture  of  Adam  and  Eve  at  the 
end  of  it.  What  a beautiful  creature  she  is!  hair  down  to  her 
waist,  and  such  eyes!  Ah,  ye  darling!  said  I to  myself,  small 
blame  to  him  for  what  he  did.  Wouldn’t  I ate  every  crab  in  the 
garden,  if  ye  asked  me!” 

“ I must  certainly  go  see  her,  Maurice.  Is  she  very  Portu- 
guese in  her  style  ?” 

“ Devil  a bit  of  it.  She  might  be  a Limerick  woman,  with 
elegant  brown  hair,  and  blue  eyes,  and  a skin  like  snow.” 

“Come,  come,  they’ve  pretty  girls  in  Lisbon  too.  Doctor.” 

Yes,  faith,”  said  Power,  “ that  they  have.” 

“ Nothing  like  Ireland,  boys;  not  a bit  of  it.  They’re  the  girls 
for  my  money;  and  where’s  the  man  can  resist  them?  From 
^ St.  Patrick,  that  had  to  go  live  in  the  Wicklow  mountains ” 

“St.  Kevin,  you  mean.  Doctor.” 

“ Sure  it’s  all  the  same,  they  were  twins.  I made  a little 
song  about  them  one  evening  last  week — the  women,  I mean.” 

“Let  us  have  it,  Maurice;  let  us  have  it,  old  fellow.  What’s 
the  measure  ?” 

“ Short  measure;  four  little  verses,  devil  a more.” 

“ But  the  time,  I mean?” 

Whenever  you  like  to  sing  it,  here  it  is.” 


&HARLES  O^MALLEY, 


THE  GIRLS  OF  THE  WEST. 

J-ir— “teddy,  te  gander.” 

{With feeling y hut  not  too  slow.) 

Ye  may  talk,  if  you  please, 

Of  the  brown  Portuguese, 

But,  wherever  you  roam,  wherever  you  roam, 

You  nothing  will  meet. 

Half  so  lovely  and  sweet. 

As  the  girls  at  home,  the  girls  at  home. 

Their  eyes  are  not  sloes. 

Nor  so  long  is  their  nose. 

But,  between  me  and  you,  between  me  and  you, 

They  are  just  as  alarming. 

And  ten  times  more  charming. 

With  hazel  and  blue,  with  hazel  and  blue. 

They  don’t  ogle  a man 
O’er  the  top  of  their  fan. 

Till  his  heart’s  in  a flame;  his  heart’s  in  a flame; 

But,  though  bashful  gind  shy. 

They’ve  a look  in  their  eye. 

That  just  comes  to  the  same,  just  comes  to  the  same. 

No  mantillas  they  sport. 

But  a petticoat  short 

Shows  an  ankle  the  best,  an  ankle  the  best, 

And  a leg;  but,  O murther! 

I dare  not  go  further, 

So  here’s  to  the  West,  so  here’s  to  the  West. 

“ Now  that  really  is  a sweet  little  thing.  Moore’§,  isn’t  it?” 

“ Not  a bit  of  it ; my  own  muse,  every  word  of  it.” 

“And  the  music ?”  said  I. 

“ My  own,  too.  Too  much  spice  in  that  bowl;  that’s  an  inva- 
riable error  in  your  devisers  of  drink,  to  suppose  that  the  tipple 
you  start  with  can  please  your  palate  to  the  last;  they  forget 
that  as  we  advance  either  in  years  or  lush,  our  tastes  simplify.” 

“ JSfous  revenons  aux  'premieres  amours.  Isn't  that  it?” 

“ No,  not  exactly,  for  we  go  even  further;  for,  if  you  mark  the 
progression  of  a sensible  man’s  fluids,  you’ll  And  what  an  em- 
blem of  life  it  presents  to  you.  What  is  this  initiatory  glass  of 
chablis  that  he  throws  down  with  his  oysters,  but  the  budding 
expectancy  of  boyhood — the  appetizing  sense  of  pleasure  to 
come;  then  follows  the  sherry,  with  the  soup,  that  warming 
glow  which  strength  and  vigor,  in  all  their  consciousness  im- 
part, as  a glimpse  of  life  is  opening  before  him.  The  youth  suc- 
ceeds—buoyant,  wild  and  tempestuous  youth — foaming  and 
sparkling,  hke  the  bright  champagne,  whose  stormy  surface  sub- 
sides into  a myriad  of  bright  stars.” 

“ CEil  de  Perdreaux,^^ 

“ Not  a bit  of  it;  woman’s  own  eyes;  brilliant,  sparkling,  life 
giving ” 

“Devil  take  the  fellow,  he’s  getting  poetical.” 

“ Ah,  Fred  I if  that  could  only  last;  but  one  must  come  to  the 
burgundies  with  his  maturer  years.  Your  first  glass  of  hermit- 


CHABLES  aMALLEY. 


n 

age  is  the  algebraic  sign  for  five-and-thirty— the  glorious  burst  is 
over;  the  pace  is  still  good,  to  be  sure,  but  the  great  enthusiasm 
is  past.  You  can  afford  to  look  forward,  but,  confound  it, 
you’ve  a long  way  to  look  back  also.” 

“I  say,  Charley,  our  friend  has  contrived  to  finish  the  bishop 
during  his  disquisition;  the  bowl’s  quite  empty.” 

“You  don’t  say  so,  Fred.  To  be  sure,  how  a man  does  forget 
himself  in  abstract  speculation;  but  let  us  have  a little  more, 
I’ve  not  concluded  my  homily.” 

“Not  a glass,  Maurice;  it’s  already  past  nine;  we  are  pledged 
to  the  masquerade,  and  before  we’ve  dressed  and  got  there, 
'twill  be  late  enough.” 

“But  I’m  not  disguised  yet,  my  boy,  nor  half.” 

“Well,  they  must  take  you  au  naturel,  as  they  do  your 
countrymen  the  potatoes.” 

“Yes  Doctor,  Fred’s  right;  we  had  better  start.” 

“Well,  I can’t  help  it;  I*ve  recorded  my  opposition  to  the 
motion,  but  must  I submit;  and  now  that  I’m  on  my  legs,  ex- 
plain to  me  what’s  that  very  dull-looking  old  lamp  up  there?” 

“ That’s  the  moon,  man^the  full  moon.” 

“Well,  I’ve  no  objection;  I*m  full  too;  so  come  along,  lads.’* 


CHAPTER  LXXXV. 

THE  MASQUERADE. 

To  form  one’s  impression  of  a masked  ball  from  the  attempts 
at  this  mode  of  entertainment  in  our  country,  is  but  to  conceive 
a most  imperfect  and  erroneous  notion.  With  us  the  first  coup 
d^ceil  is  everything;  the  nuns,  the  shepherdesses,  the  Turks,  sailors 
princesses,  watchmen,  moonshees,  milestones,  devils,  and  quakers 
are  all  very  well  in  their  way,  as  they  pass  in  view  before  us, 
but  when  we  come  to  mix  in  the  crowd,  v/e  discover  that  except 
the  turban  and  the  cowl,  the  crook  and  the  broadbrim*  no  further 
disguise  is  attempted  or  thought  of.  The  nun,  forgetting  her 
vow  and  her  vestments,  is  flirting  with  the  devil;  the  watch- 
man, a very  fastidious  elegant,  is  ogling  the  fishwoman  through 
his  glass,  while  the  quaker  is  performing  apas-seul  Alberti  might 
be  proud  of,  in  a quadrille  of  riotous  Turks  and  Iialf-tipsy  Hin- 
doos; in  fact  the  whole  wit  of  the  scene  consists  in  absurd  asso- 
ciations; apart  frorh  this  the  actors  have  rarely  any  claims  upon 
your  attention;  for  even  supposing  a person  clever  enough  to 
sustain  his  character,  whatever  it  be,  you  must  also  supply  the 
other  personages  of  the  drama;  or,  in  stage  phrase,  he’ll  have 
nothing  to  play  up  to.  What  would  Bardolf  be  without  Pistol  ? 
— what  Sir  Lucius  O’Trigger  without  Acres  I It  is  the  relief 
which  throws  out  the  disparities  and  contradictions  of  life  which 
affords  us  most  amusement;  hence  it  is,  that  one  swallow  can  do 
more  to  make  a summer  than  one  well-sustained  character  can 
do  to  a masquerade.  Without  such  sympathies,  such  points  of 
contact,  all  the  leading  features  of  the  individual,  making  him 
act  and  be  acted  upon,  are  lost;  the  character.':  being  mere  paral- 
lel lines,  which,  however  near  they  approach,  never  bisect  or 
cross  each  other. 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


75 


This  is  not  the  case  abroad;  the  domino,  which  serves  for  mere 
concealment,  is  almost  the  only  dress  assumed,  and  the  real  dis- 
guise is  therefore  thrown  from  necessity  upon  the  talents,  what- 
ever they  be,  of  the  wearer.  It  is  no  loiter  a question  of  a beard 
or  a spangled  mantle,  a Polish  dress,  o^a  pasteboard  nose;  the 
mutation  of  voice,  the  assumption  of  a different  manner,  walk, 
gesture,  and  mode  of  expression,  are  all  necessary,  and  no  small 
tact  is  required  to  effect  this  successfully. 

I may  be  pardoned  this  little  digression,  as  it  serves  to  explain 
in  some  measure  how  I felt  on  entering  the  splendidly  lit  up 
salons  of  the  villa,  crowded  with  hundreds  of  figures  in  all  the 
varied  costumes  of  a carnival.  The  sounds  of  laughter,  mingled 
with  the  crash  of  the  music,  the  hurrying  hither  and  thither  of 
servants  with  refreshments,  the  crowds  gathered  around  fortune- 
tellers, whose  predictions  threw  the  parties  at  each  moment  into 
shouts  of  merriment;  the  eager  following  of  some  disappointed 
domino,  interrogating  every  one  to  find  out  a lost  mask.  For 
some  time  I stood  an  astonished  spectator  at  the  kind  of  secret 
intelligence  which  seemed  to  pervade  the  whole  assemblage, 
when  suddenly  a mask,  who  for  some  time  had  been  standing 
beside  me,  whispered  in  French : 

“ If  you  pass  your  time  in  this  manner  you  must  not  feel  sur- 
prised if  your  place  be  occupied.” 

I turned  hastily  round,  but  she  was  gone.  She,  I say,  for  the 
voice  was  clearly  a woman’s;  her  pink  domino  could  be  no  guide, 
for  hundreds  of  the  same  color  passed  me  every  instant;  the 
meaning  of  the  allusion  I had  little  doubt  of.  I turned  to  speak 
to  Power,  but  he  was  gone,  and  for  the  first  moment  of  my  life 
the  bitterness  of  rivalry  crossed  my  mind.  It  was  true  I had 
resigned  all  pretensions  in  his  favor;  my  last  meeting  with  Lucy 
had  been  merely  to  justify  my  own  character  against  an  impres- 
sion that  weighed  heavily  on  me;  still  I thought  he  might  have 
waited — another  day  and  I should  be  far  away,  neither  to  witness 
nor  grieve  over  his  successes. 

‘‘  You  still  hesitate,”  whispered  some  one  near  me. 

I wheeled  round  suddenly,  but  could  not  detect  the  speaker, 
and  was  again  relapsing  into  my  own  musings,  when  the  same 
voice  repeated: 

“ The  white  domino  with  the  blue  cape.  Adieu!” 

Without  waiting  to  reflect  upon  the  singularity  of  the  occur- 
rence, I now  hurried  along  through  the  dense  crowd,  searching 
on  every  side  for  the  domino. 

Isn’t  that  O’Malley  ?”  said  an  Englishman  to  his  friend. 

Yes,”  replied  the  other,  “ the  very  man  we  want.  O’Malley, 
find  us  a partner;  we  have  been  searching  a vis-a-vis  this  ten  min- 
utes.” The  speaker  was  an  an  ofldcer  I had  met  at  Sir  George 
Dashwood’s. 

“ How  did  you  discover  me?”  said  I,  suddenly. 

“ Not  a very  difficult  thing,  if  you  carry  your  mask  in  your 
hand  that  way,”  was  the  answer. 

And  I now  perceived,  that  in  the  distraction  of  my  thoughts 
I had  been  carrying  my  mask  in  this  manner  since  coming  into 
the  room. 


•?6 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


“ There  now,  what <say  you  to  the  blue  domino?  I saw  her 
foot,  and  a girl  with  such  an  instep  must  be  a waltzer.” 

I looked  round,  a confused  effort  at  memory  passing  across  my 
mind;  my  eyes  fell  at  the  instant  upon  the  embroidered  sleeve 
of  the  domino,  wber^a  rosebud  worked  in  silver  at  once  re- 
minded me  of  CatrinPf^ecret.  Ah,  thought  I,  La  Senora  her- 
self. She  was  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  a tall  and  portly  figure 
in  black;  who  this  was  I knew  not,  nor  sought  to  discover,  but 
at  once  advancing  toward  Donna  Inez  asked  her  to  waltz. 

Without  replying  to  me  she  turned  toward  her  companion, 
who  seemed  as  it  were  to  press  her  acceptance  of  my  offer;  she 
hesitated,  however,  for  an  instant,  and,  courtesying  deeply,  de- 
clined it.  Well,  thought  I,  she  at  least  has  not  recognized  me. 

And  yet,  senora,”  said  I,  half  jestingly,  “I  have  seen  you 
join  a bolero  before  now.” 

‘‘  You  evidently  mistake  me,”  was  the  reply,  but  in  a voice  so 
well  feigned  as  almost  to  convince  me  she  was  right. 

“ Nay,  more,”  said  I,  “ under  your  own  fair  auspices  did  I my- 
self first  adventure  one.” 

Still  in  error,  believe  me;  I am  not  known  to  you.” 

“ And  yet  I have  a talisman  to  refresh  your  memory,  should 
you  dare  me  further.” 

At  this  instant  my  hand  was  grasped  warmly  by  a passing 
mask.  I turned  round  rapidly,  and  Power  whispered  in  my 
ear: 

‘‘  Yours  forever,  Charley;  you've  made  my  fortune.” 

As  he  hurried  on  I could  perceive  that  he  supported  a lady  on 
his  arm,  and  that  she  wore  a loose  white  domino  with  a deep 
blue  cape.  In  a second  all  thought  of  Inez  was  forgotten,  and 
anxious  only  to  conceal  my  emotion,  I turned  away  and  mingled 
in  the  crowd.  Lost  to  all  around  me,  I wandered  carelessly  and 
heedlessly  on,  neither  noticing  tlie  glittering  throng  around,  nor 
feeling  a thought  in  common  with  the  gay  and  joyous  spirits 
that  flitted  by.  The  night  wore  on,  my  melancnoly  and  depres- 
sion growing  ever  deeper,  yet  so  spell- K OunJ  was  I that  I could 
not  leave  the  place.  A secret  sense  tha^  it  was  the  last  time  we 
were  to  meet  had  gained  entire  possession  of  me,  and  I longed 
to  speak  a few  words  ere  we  parted  forever. 

I was  leaning  at  a window  which  looked  out  upon  the  court- 
yard, when  suddenly  the  tramp  of  horses  attracted  my  attention, 
and  I saw  by  the  light  moonlight  a group  of  mounted  men 
whose  long  cloaks  and  tall  helmets  announced  dragoons,  staud- 
ing  around  the  porch.  At  the  same  moment  the  door  of  the 
saloon  opened,  and  an  officer  in  undress,  splashed  and  travel- 
stained,  entered.  Making  his  way  rapidly  through  the  crowd, 
he  followed  the  servant,  who  introduced  him  toward  the  sup- 
per-room. Thither  the  dense  mass  now  pressed  to  learn  the 
meaning  of  the  singular  apparition.  While  my  own  curiosity,  not 
less  excited,  led  me  toward  the  door;  as  I crossed  the  hall, 
however,  my  progress  was  interrupted  by  a group  of  persons, 
among  whom  I saw  an  aid-de-camp  of  Lord  Wellington’s 
staff,  narrating,  as  it  were,  some  piece  of  newly  arrived  intel- 
ligence. I had  no  time  for  further  inquiry,  when  a door  opened 


CBARLm  OMALIEY. 


near  ni^,  and  Sir  George  Dash  wood,  accompanied  by  several 
general  officers,  came  forth;  the  officer  I had  first  seen  enter  the 
ball-room  along  with  them.  Every  one  was  by  this  unmasked, 
and  eagerly  looking  to  hear  what  had  occurred. 

“ Then.  Dash  wood,  you’ll  send  an  orderly  at  once  to  Lisbon 
said  an  old  general  officer  beside  me. 

‘‘This  instant  my  Lord.  I’ll  dispatch  an  aid-de-camp.  The 
troops  shall  be  in  marching  order  before  noon.  Oh,  here’s  the 
man  I want!  O’Malley,  come  here.  Mount  your  horse  and  dash 
into  town;  send  for  Brotherton  and  M’Gregor  to  quarters,  and 
announce  the  news  ay  quickly  as  possible.” 

“But  what  am  I to  announce.  Sir  George?” 

“ That  the  French  are  in  retreat — Massena  in  retreat,  my  lad.” 

A tremendous  cheer  at  this  instant  burst  from  the  hundreds  in 
the  saloon,  who  now  heard  the  glorious  tidings.  Another  cheer 
and  another  followed — ten  thousand  vivas  amid  the  crash  of 

the  band,  as  it  broke  into  a patriotic  war  chant.  Such  a scene 
of  enthusiasm  and  excitement  1 never  witnessed.  Some  wept 
with  joy.  Others  threw  themselves  into  their  friends’  arms. 

“ They’re  all  mad — every  mother’s  son  of  them,”  said  Maurice 
Quill,  as  he  elbowed  his  way  through  the  mass;  “ and  here’s  an 
old  vestal  won’t  leave  my  arm.  She  has  already  embraced  me 
three  times,  and  we’ve  finished  a fiask  of  Malaga  between  us.” 

“ Come,  O’Malley,  are  you  ready  for  the  road?” 

My  horse  was  by  this  time  standing  saddled  at  the  font.  I 
sprung  at  once  to  the  saddle,  and,  without  waiting  for  a second 
order,  set  out  for  Lisbon.  Ten  minutes  had  scarce  elapsed,  the 
very  shouts  of  joy  of  the  delighted  city  were  still  ringing  in 
my  ears,  when  I was  once  again  back  at  the  villa.  As  I mount- 
ed the  steps  into  the  hall,  a carriage  drew  up;  it  was  Sir  George 
Dash  wood’s;  he  came  forward — his  daughter  leaning  upon  his 
arm. 

“ Why,  O’Malley,  I thought  you’d  gone.” 

“ I have  returned,  Sir  George.  Colonel  Brotherton  is  in  wait- 
ing, and  the  staff  also.  I have  received  orders  to  set  out  for 
Bene j os,  where  the  Fourteenth  are  stationed,  and  have  merely 
delayed  to  say  .adieu.” 

‘‘Adieu,  my  d(3ar  boy,  and  God  bless  you,”  said  the  warm- 
hearted old  man,  as  he  pressed  my  hand  between  both  his. 
“ Lucy,  here’s  your  old  friend  about  to  leave;  come  and  say  good- 
bye.” 

Miss  Dashwood  had  stopped  behind  to  adjust  her  shawl.  I 
flew  to  her  assistance.  “ Adieu,  Miss  Dashwood,  and  forever,” 
said  1,  in  a broken  voice,  as  I took  her  band  in  mine.  “This  is 
not  your  domino,”  said  I,  eagerly,  as  a blue  silk  one  peeped  from 
beneath  her  mantle;  “and  the  sleeve,  too — did  you  wear  this?” 
She  blushed  slightly,  and  assented. 

“I  changed  with  the  senora,  who  wore  mine  all  the  evening.” 

“ And  Power,  then,  was  not  your  partner  ?” 

“I  should  think  not — for  I never  danced.” 

“ Lucy,  my  love,  are  you  ready  ? Come,  be  quick.” 

“ Good-bye,  Mr.  O’Malley,  and  au  revoir  n'est  pas  T' 

I drew  her  glove  from  her  hand  as  she  spoke,  and  pressing  my 


78 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


Ups  Upon  her  fingers,  placed  her  within  the  carriage.  ‘‘Adieu 
and  au  revoir,^'  said  I;  the  carriage  turned  away,  and  a white 
glove  was  all  that  remained  to  me  of  Lucy  Dashwood. 

The  carriage  had  turned  the  angle  of  the  road,  and  its  retiring 
sounds  were  growing  gradually  fainter,  ere  I recovered  myself 
sufficiently  to  know  where  I stood.  One  absorbing  thought 
alone  possessed  me.  Lu(iy  was  not  lost  to  me  forever;  Power  was 
not  my  rival  in  that  quarter — that  was  enough  for  me.  I needed 
no  more  to  nerve  my  arm  and  steel  my  heart.  As  I reflected 
thus,  the  long,  loud  blast  of  a trumpet  broke  upon  the  silence  of 
the  night,  and  admonished  me  to  depart.  I hirrried  to  my  room 
to  make  my  few  preparations  for  the  road,  but  Mike  had  already 
anticipated  everything  here,  and  all  was  in  readiness. 

But  one  thing  now  remained — to  make  my  adieu  to  thesenora. 
With  this  intent  I descended  a narrow  winding  stair  which  led 
from  my  dressing-room,  and  opened  by  a little  terrace  upon  the 
flower-garden  beside  her  apartments. 

As  I crossed  the  graveled  alley,  T could  not  but  think  of  the 
last  time  T had  been  there.  It  was  on  the  eve  of  my  departure 
for  the  Douro.  I recalled  the  few  and  fleeting  moments  of  our 
leave-taking,  and  a thought  flashed  upon  me — what  if  she  cared 
for  me  ? AVhat,  if,  half  in  coquetry,  half  in  reality,  her  heart 
was  mixed  up  in  those  passages  which  daily  association  gives 
rise  to  ? 

I could  not  altogether  acquit  myself  of  all  desire  to  make  her 
believe  me  her  admirer;  nay  more,  with  the  indolent  abandon  of 
my  country,  I had  fallen  into  a thousand  little  schemes  to  cheat 
the  long  hours  away,  which  having  no  other  object  than  the 
happiness  of  the  moment,  might  yet  color  all  her  after  life  with 
sorrow. 

Let  no  one  rashly  pronounce  me  a coxcomb,  vain  and  pre- 
tentious, for  all  this.  In  my  inmost  heart,  I had  no  feeling  of 
selfishness  mingled  with  the  consideration.  It  was  from  non- 
sense of  my  own  merits,  no  calculation  of  my  own  chances  of 
success,  that  I thought  thus.  Fortunately,  at  eighteen,  one’s 
heart  is  uncontaminated  with  such  an  alloy  of  vanity.  The 
first  emotions  of  youth  are  pure  and  holy  things,  tempering  our 
fiercer  passions,  and  calming  the  rude  effervescence  of  our  boy- 
ish spirits;  and  when  we  strive  to  please  and  hope  to  win  affec- 
tion, we  insensibly  fashion  ourselves  to  nobler  and  higher 
thoughts,  catching  from  the  source  of  our  devotion  a portion  of 
that  charm  that  idealizes  daily  life,  and  makes  our  path  in  it  a 
glorious  and  a bright  one. 

Who  would  not  exchange  all  the  triumphs  of  his  later  days, 
the  proudest  moments  of  successful  ambition,  the  richest  tro- 
phies of  hard  won  daring,  for  the  short  and  vivid  flash  that  first 
shot  through  his  heart  and  told  him  he  was  loved  ? It  is  the 
opening  consciousness  of  life,  the  first  sense  of  power  that 
makes  of  the  mere  boy  a man;  a man  in  all  his  daring  and  his 
pride,  and  hence  it  is  that  in  early  life  we  feel  ever  prone  to  in- 
dulge those  fancied  attachments  which  elevate  and  raise  us  in 
our  own  esteem.  Such  was  the  frame  of  my  mind  as  I entered 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY.  79 

the  little  boudoir,  where  once  before  before  I had  ventured  on  a 
similar  errand. 

As  I closed  the  sash-door  behind  me,  the  gray  dawn  of  break- 
ing day  scarcely  permitted  my  seeing  anything  around  me,  and 
I felt  my  way  toward  the  door  of  an  adjoining  room,  where  I 
supposed  it  was  likely  I should  find  the  senora.  As  I proceeded 
thus,  with  cautious  step  and  beating  heart,  I thought  I heard  a 
sound  near  me.  I stopped  and  listened,  and  was  about  again  to 
move  on,  when  a half -stifled  sob  fell  upon  my  ear.  Slowly  and 
silently  guiding  my  steps  toward  the  sound,  I reached  a sofa, 
when,  my  eyes,  growing  by  degrees  more  accustomed  to  the 
faint  light,  I could  detect  a figure,  which,  at  a glance,  I recog- 
nized as  Donna  Inez.  A cashmere  shawl  was  loosely  thrown 
round  her,  and  her  face  was  buried  in  her  hands.  As  she  lay,  to 
all  seeming,  still  and  insensible  before  me,  her  beautiful  hair  fell 
heavily  upon  her  back  and  across  her  arms,  and  her  whole  atti- 
tude denoted  the  very  abandonment  to  grief.  A short,  convul- 
sive shudder  which  slightly  shook  her  frame,  alone  gave  evidence 
of  life,  except  when  a sob,  barely  audible  in  the  death-like  si- 
lence, escaped  her. 

I knelt  silently  down  beside  her,  and  gently  withdrawing  her 
hand,  placed  it  within  mine.  A dreadful  feeling  of  self-con- 
demnation shot  through  me  as  I felt  the  gentle  pressure  of  her 
taper  fingers,  which  rested  without  a struggle  in  my  grasp.  My 
tears  fell  hot  and  fast  upon  that  pale  hand,  as  I bent  in  sadness 
over  it,  unable  to  utter  a word:  a rush  of  conflicting  thoughts 
passed  through  my  brain,  and  I knew  not  what  to  do.  I now 
had  no  doubt  upon  my  mind  that  she  loved  me,  and  that  her 
present  affliction  waif  caused  by  my  approaching  departure. 

“ Dearest  Inez,”  I stammered  out  at  length,  as  I pressed  her 
hands  to  my  lips,  “ dearest  Inez  ” — a faint  sob  and  a slight  press- 
ure of  her  hand  was  the  only  reply.  “ I have  come  to  say  good- 
bye,” continued  I,  gaining  a little  courage  as  I spoke,  “a  long 
good-bye,  too,  in  all  likelihood.  You  have  heard  that  we  are 
ordered  away;  there,  don’t  sob,  dearest,  and,  believe  me,  I had 
wished,  ere  we  parted,  to  have  spoken  to  you  calmly  and  openly; 
but  alas  I I cannot;  I scarcely  know  what  I say.” 

“ You  will  not  forget  me?” — said  she  in  a low  voice,  that  sunk 
into  my  very  heart.  “You  will  not  forget  me?”  as  she  spoke 
her  hand  dropped  heavily  upon  my  shoulder,  and  her  rich  luxu- 
riant hair  fell  upon  my  cheek.  What  a devil  of  a thing  is  prox- 
imity to  a downy  cheek  and  a black  eyelash,  more  especially 
when  they  belong  to  one  whom  you  are  disposed  to  believe  not 
indifferent  to  you.  What  I did  at  this  precise  moment  there  is 
no  necessity  for  recording,  even  had  not  an  adage  interdicted 
such  confessions,  nor  can  I now  remember  what  I said;  but  I can 
well  recollect  how,  gradually  warming  with  my  subject,  I entered 
into  a kind  of  half  declaration  of  attachment,  intended  most 
honestly  to  be  a mere  expose  of  my  own  unworthiness  to  win 
her  favor;  and  my  resolution  to  leave  Lisbon  and  its  neighbor- 
hood forever. 

Let  not  any  one  blame  me  rashly  if  he  has  not  experienced  tha 
difficulty  of  my  position.  The  impetus  of  love-making^  is  like 


80 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


the  ardor  of  a fox-hunt.  You  care  little  that  the  six-bar  gata 
before  you  is  the  boundary  of  another  gentleman’s  preserves,  or 
the  fence  of  his  pleasure  gi-ound.  You  go  slap  along  at  a smash- 
ing pace,  with  your  head  up,  and  your  hand  low,  clearing  all 
before  you.  The  opposing  difficulties  to  your  progress  giving 
half  the  zest,  because  all  the  danger  to  your  career.  So  it  is  with 
love;  the  gambling  spirit  urges  one  ever  onward,  and  the  chance 
of  failure  is  a reason  for  pursuit,  where  no  other  argument 
exists. 

“And  do  you  love  me?”  said  the  senora,  with  a soft  low 
whisper  that  most  unaccountably  suggested  anything  but  com- 
fort to  me. 

“Love  you,  Inez?  By  this  kiss I’m  in  an  infernal 

scrape!”  said  I,  muttering  this  last  half  of  my  sentence  to  myself. 

“ And  you’ll  never  be  jealous  again?” 

“ Never,  by  all  that’s  lovely — your  own  sweet  lips.  That’s  tho 
very  last  thing  to  reproach  me  with.” 

“And  you  promise  me  not  to  mind  that  foolish  boy?  For, 
after  all,  you  know  it  was  a mere  flirtation — ^if  even  that.” 

“ I’ll  never  think  of  him  again,”  said  I,  while  my  brain  was 
burning  to  make  out  her  meaning.  “ But,  deal  est,  there  goes 
the  trumpet  call ” 

“ And  as  for  Pedro  Mascarenhas,  I never  liked  him.” 

“ Are  you  quite  sure,  Inez?” 

“I  swear  it — so  uo  more  of  him.  Gonzales  Cordenza — I’ve, 
broke  with  him  long  since.  So  that  you  see, dearest  Frederick ” 

“ Frederick,’'  said  I,  starting  almost  to  my  feet  with  amaze- 
ment, while  she  continued.  “I’m  your  own,  all  your  own.” 

“ Oh,  the  coquette,  the  heartless  jilt,”  groaned  I,  half  aloud — 
“and  O’Malley,  Inez,  poor  Charley — what  of  him  ?” 

“ Poor  thing— I can’t  help  him— but  he's  such  a puppy,  the 
lesson  may  do  him  good.” 

“ But  perhaps  he  loved  you,  Inez?” 

“ To  be  sure  he  did;  I wished  him  to  do  so — ^I  can’t  bear  not 
to  be  loved — but,  Frederick,  tell  me,  may  I trust  you — will  you 
keep  faithful  to  me  ?” 

“Sweetest  Inez,  by  this  last  kiss  I swear  that  such  as  I kneel 
before  you  now,  you’ll  ever  find  me.”  ^ 

A foot  upon  the  gravel- walk  without  now  called  me  to  my 
feet — I sprang  toward  the  door,  and  before  Inez  had  lifted  her 
head  from  the  sofa,  I had  reached  the  garden.  A figure  muffled 
infa  cavalry  cloak  passed  near  me,  but  without  noticing  me,  and 
the  next  moment  I had  cleared  the  paling,  and  was  hurrying 
toward  the  stable  where  I had  ordered  Mike  to  be  in  waiting. 

The  faint  streak  of  dull  pink  which  announces  the  coming 
day  stretched  beneath  the  dark  clouds  of  the  night,  and  the 
chill  air  of  the  morning  w^as  already  stirring  in  the  leaves. 

As  I passed  along  by  a low  beech  hedge  which  skirted  the 
.avenue,  I was  struck  by  the  sound  of  voices  near  me.  I stopped 
to  listen,  and  soon  detected  in  one  of  the  speakers  my  friend 
Mickey  Free;  of  the  other  I was  not  long  in  ignorance. 

“ Love  you,  is  it — bathershin?  It’s  worship  you — adore  you, 
my  darling — that’s  the  word — there,  acushla,  don’t  cry-^ry 


CHARLES  a M ALLEY. 


81 


your  eyes — oh,  murther,  it’s  a cruel  thing  to  tear  oneself  away 
from  the  best  of  living,  with  the  run  of  the  house  in  drink  and 
kissing.  Bad  luck  to  it  for  campaigning,  any  way,  I never  liked 
itr’ 

Catrina’s  reply — for  it  was  her — I could  not  gather;  but  Mike 
resumed: 

“Ay,  just  so;  sore  bones  and  wet  grass,  acadente,  and  half  ra- 
tions. Ou,  that  I ever  saw  the  day  when  I took  to  it.  Listen  to 
me  now,  honey,  here  it  is  on  my  knees  I am  before  you,  and 
throth  it’s  not  more  than  three,  may  be  four  young  women  I’d 
say  the  like  to;  bad  scran  to  me  if  I wouldn’t  marry  you  out  of 
the  face  this  blessed  morning  just  as  soon  as  I’d  look  at  ye.  Ar- 
rah  there,  now,  don’t  be  screeching  and  bawling;  what’ll  the 
neighbors  think  of  us  ? and  my  own  heart’s  destroyed  with  grief 
entirely.” 

Poor  Catrina’s  voice  returned  an  inaudible  answer,  and  not 
wishing  any  longer  to  play  the  eavesdropper,  I continued  my 
path  toward  the  stable.  The  distant  noises  from  the  city  an- 
nounced a state  of  movement  and  preparation,  and  more  than 
one  orderly  passed  the  road  near  me  at  a gallop.  As  I turned  in 
the  wide  court-yard,  Mike,  breathless  and  flurried  with  running, 
overtook  me. 

“ Are  the  horses  ready,  Mike  ?”  said  I;  “we  must  start  this 
instant.” 

“They’ve  just  finished  a peck  of  oats  apiece,  and  faix,  that 
same  may  be  a stranger  to  them  this  day  six  months.” 

“ And  the  baggage,  too  ?” 

“ On  the  cars  with  the  staff  and  the  light  brigade.  It  was 
down  there  I was  now  to  see  all  was  right.” 

“ Oh,  I’m  quite  aware:  and  now  bring  out  the  cattle,  I hope 
Catrina  received  your  little  consolations  well.  That  seems  a 
very  sad  affair.” 

“ Murder,  real  murder,  devil  a less. . It’s  no  matter  where  you 
go,  from  Clonmel  to  Chaney,  it’s  all  one  ; they’ve  a way  of  get- 
ting round  you.  Upon  nay  soul  it’s  like  the  pigs  they  are.” 

“ Like  pigs,  Mike  ? That  appears  a strange  compliment  you’ve 
selected  to  pay  them.” 

“ Ay,  just  like  the  pigs,  no  less.  May  be  you  never  heard 
what  happened  to  myself  up  at  Moronho  T 

“ Look  to  that  girth  there.  Well,  go  on.” 

“I  was  coming  along  one  morning,  just  as  day  was  beginning 
to  break,  when  I sees  a slip  of  a pig  trotting  before  me,  with  no- 
body near  him;  but  as  the  road  was  lonely,  and  myself  rather 
down  in  heart,  I thought,  musha!  but  ye’re  fine  company,  any- 
how, av  a body  could  only  keep  you  with  him.  But,  ye  see,  a 
pig — saving  your  presence — is  a baste  not  easily  flattered,  so  I 
didn't  waste  time  and  blarney  upon  him,  but  I took  off  my  belt 
and  put  it  round  its  neck  as  neat  as  need  be;  but  as  the  devil's 
luck  would  have  it,  I didn’t  go  half  an  hour  when  a horse  came 
galloping  up  behind  me.  1 turned  round,  and,  by  the  blessed 
light,  it  was  Sir  Dinny  himself  was  on  it!” 

“ Sir  Dennis  Pack  ?” 

**  Yes;  bad  luck  to  his  hook- nose.  < What  are  you  doing  there, 


82  ; CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 

my  fine  fellow  ?’  says  he.  ‘ What’s  that  you  have  dragging  there 
behind  you?’ 

“ ‘ A boneen,  sir,’  says  I;  ‘ isn’t  he  a fine  crature? — av  he  wasn’t 
so  troublesome.’ 

“ ‘ Troublesome,  troublesome-^ what  do  you  mean?’ 

“ ‘ Just  so,’  says  I;  ‘ isn’t  he  parsecuting  the  life  of  me  the 
whole  morning,  following  me  about  everywhere  I go  ? Contrary 
bastes  they  always  was.’ 

‘‘  ‘ I advise  you  to  try  and  part  company,  my  friend,  notwith- 
standing,’ says  he;  ' and  may  be  it’s  the  same  end  you’ll  be  com- 
ing to,  and  not  long  either.’  And  faix  I took  his  advice;  and  ye 
see,  Mr.  Charles,  it’s  just  as  I was  saying,  they’re  like  the  women, 
the  least  thing  in  life  is  enough  to  bring  them  after  us,  av  ye 
only  put  the  ^ comether  ’ upon  them.  ” 

“And  now  adieu  to  the  villa  Nuova,”  said  I,  as  I rode  slowly 
down  the  avenue,  turning  ever  and  anon  in  my  saddle  to  look 
back  on  each  well-known  spot, 

A heavy  sigh  from  Mike  responded  to  my  words. 

“ A long,  a last  farewell,”  said  I,  vaving  my  hand  toward  the 
trellised  walls  now  half  hidden  by  the  trees,  and,  as  I spoke, 
that  heaviness  of  the  heart  came  over  me  that  seems  inseparable 
from  leave-taking.  The  hour  of  j arting  seems  like  a warning 
to  us  that  all  our  enjoyments  and  pleasures  are  here  destined 
to  a short  and  merely  fleeting  existence;  and,  as  each  scene  of 
life  passes  away  never  to  return,  we  are  made  to  feel  that  youth 
and  hope  are  passing  with  them;  and  that,  although  the  fair 
world  be  as  bright,  and  its  pleasures  as  rich  in  abundance,  our 
capacity  of  enjoyment  is  daily,  hourly  diminishing;  and,  while 
all  around  us  smiles  in  beauty  and  happiness,  that  we,  alas!  are 
not  what  we  were. 

Such  was  the  tenor  of  my  thoughts  as  I reached  the  road, 
when  they  were  suddenly  interrupted  by  my  man,  Mike, 
whose  meditations  were  following  a somewhat  similar  channel, 
though  at  last  inclining  to  different  conclusions.  He  coughed 
a couple  of  times  as  if  to  attract  my  attention,  and  then,  as  it 
were,  half  thinking  aloud,  he  muttered: 

“ I wonder  if  we  treated  the  young  ladies  well,  anyhow, 
Mister  Charles,  for  faix  I’ve  my  doubts  of  it.” 


CHAPTER  LXXXVI. 

THE  LINES. 

When  we  reached  Lescas,  we  found  that  an  officer  of  Lord 
Wellington’s  staff  had  just  arrived  from  the  lines,  and  was  oc- 
cupied in  rnaldng  known  the  general  order  from  headquarters; 
which  set  forth  with  customary  brevity,  that  the  French  armies, 
under  the  command  of  Massena,  had  retired  from  their  posi- 
tion, and  were  in  full  retreat;  the  second  and  third  corps,  which 
had  been  stationed  at  Villa  Franca,  having  marched  during  Jbhe 
night  of  the  15th  in  the  direction  of  Manal.  The  officers  in  com- 
mand of  divisions  were  ordered  to  repair  instantly  to  Pero 
Negro,  to  consult  upon  a forward  movement.  Admiral  Berkley 
being  written  to,  to  provide  launches  to  pass  over  to  General 


CHARLES  &MALLEY. 


8S 

Hill’s,  or  any  other  corps  which  might  be  selected,  to  the  left 
bank  of  the  Tagus.  All  was  now  excitement,  heightened  by  the 
unexpected  nature  of  an  occurrence  which  not  even  speculation 
had  calculated  upon.  It  was  but  a few  days  before,  and  the 
news  had  reached  Torres  Vedras,  that  a powerful  reinforcement 
was  in  march  to  join  Massena’s  army,  and  their  advanced  guard 
had  actually  reached  Santarem.  The  confident  expectation  was, 
therefore,  that  an  attack  upon  the  lines  was  meditated.  Now, 
however,  this  prospect  existed  no  longer;  for  scarcely  had  the* 
heavy  mist  of  the  lowering  day  disappeared,  when  the  vast 
plain,  so  lately  peopled  by  the  thickened  ranks  and  dark  masses 
of  a great  army,  was  seen  in  its  whole  extent  deserted  and  un- 
tenanted. 

The  smoldering  fires  of  the  pickets  alone  marked  where  the 
troops  were  posted,  but  not  a man  of  that  immense  force  was  to 
be  seen.  General  Fane,  who  had  been  dispatched  with  a brigade 
of  Portuguese  cavalry  and  some  artillery,  hung  upon  the  rear  of 
the  retiring  army,  and  from  him  we  learned  that  the  enemy 
were  continuing  their  retreat  northward,  having  occupied  San- 
tarem with  a strong  force  to  cover  the  movement.  Crawford 
was  ordered  to  the  front  with  the  light  division,  the  whole  army 
following  in  the  same  direction,  except  Hill’s  corps,  which, 
crossing  the  river  at  Velada,  was  intended  to  harass  the  enemy’s 
flank,  and  assist  our  future  operations. 

Such,  in  brief,  was  the  state  of  affairs  when  I reached  Villa 
Franca  toward  noon,  and  received  orders  to  join  my  regiment, 
then  forming  part  of  Sir  Stapleton  Cotton’s  brigade. 

It  must  be  felt,  to  be  thoroughly  appreciated,  the  enthusiastic 
pleasure  with  which  one  greets  his  old  corps  after  some  months 
of  separation — the  bounding  ecstasy  with  which  the  eye  rests  on 
the  old  familiar  faces,  dear  by  every  association  of  affection  and 
brotherhood;  the  anxious  look  for  this  one  and  for  that — the 
thrill  of  delight  sent  through  the  heart  as  the  well-remembered 
march  swells  upon  the  ear;  the  very  notes  of  that  rough  voice, 
which  we  had  heard  amidst  the  crash  of  battle  and  the  rolling 
of  artillery,  speaks  softly  to  our  senses,  like  a father’s  welcome; 
from  the  well- tattered  flag  that  waves  above  us,  to  the  proud 
steed  of  the  war-worn  trumpeter,  each  has  a niche  in  our  affec- 
tion. 

If  ever  there  was  a corps  calculated  to  increase  and  foster  these 
sentiments,  the  Fourteenth  Light  Dragoons  was  such.  The  warm 
affection,  the  truly  heart- felt  regard,  which  existed  among  my 
brother  oJBScers,  made  our  mess  a happy  home.  Our  veteran 
Colonel,  grown  gray  in  campaigning,  was  like  a father  to  us; 
while  the  senior  officers,  tempering  the  warm  blood  of  impetuous 
youth  with  their  hard-won  experience,  threw  a charm  of  peace 
and  tranquillity  over  all  our  intercourse  that  made  us  happy 
when  together,  and  taught  us  to  feel  that  whether  seated  around 
the  watch-fire,  or  charging  amid  the  squadrons  of  the  enemy, 
we  were  surrounded  by  those  devoted  heart  and  soul  to  aid  us. 

Gallant  Fourteenth!— ever  first  in  every  gay  scheme  of  youth- 
ful jollity,  as  foremost  in  the  van  to  meet  the  foe — how  happy 
Bm  I to  recall  the  memory  of  your  brigid*  looks  and  bold  hearts! 


CHARLES  aMALLEir. 


u 

of  your  manly  daring  and  your  bold  frankness — of  your  merry 
voices,  as  I have  heard  them  in  the  battle  or  in  the  bivouac  I 
Alas,  and  alas!  that  I should  indulge  such  recollections  alone! 
how  few — how  very  few — are  left  of  those  with  whom  I trod  the 
early  steps  of  life!  v/hose  bold  career  I have  heai’d  above  the 
clashing  sabers  of  the  enemy — whose  broken  voice  I have  listened 
to  above  the  grave  of  a comrade!  The  dark  pines  of  the  Pyrenees 
^ wave  above  some;  the  burning  sands  of  India  cover  others;  and 
the  wide  plains  of  Salamanca  are  now  your  abiding-place. 

“ Here  comes  O’Malley!”  shouted  out  a well  known  voice  as  I 
^ode  down  the  little  slope,  at  the  foot  of  which  a group  of  officers 
wer^  standing  beside  their  horses. 

‘‘Welcome,  thou  man  of  Galway!”  cried  Hampden;  “de- 
lighted to  have  you  once  more  among  us.  How  confoundedly 
well  the  fellow  is  looking!” 

“ Lisbon  beef  seems  better  prog  than  commissariat  biscuit!” 
said  another. 

“ A’weel,  Charley,”  said  my  friend,  the  Scotch  Doctor;  “how’s 
a’  wi’  ye,  man  ? Ye  seem  to  thrive  on  your  mishaps!  How  cam’ 
ye  by  that  bray  beastie  ye’re  mounted  on  ?” 

“ A present,  Doctor;  the  gift  of  a very  warm  friend.” 

“ I hope  you  invited  him  to  the  mess,  O'Malley!  For,  by 
Jove,  our  stables  stand  in  need  of  his  kind  offices!  There  he 
goes!  Look  at  him!  What  a slashing  pace  for  a heavy  fellow!” 
This  observation  was  made  with  reference  to  a well-known 
officer  .of  the  Commander-in-Chief’s  staff,  whose  weight — some 
eight-and-twenty  stone — never  was  any  impediment  to  his  bold 
riding. 

“ Egad,  O’Malley,  you’ll  soon  be  as  pretty  a light-weight  as 
our  friend  yonder.  Ah!  there’s  a storm  going  on  there.  Here 
comes  the  Colonel.” 

“Well,  O’Malley,  are  you  come  back  to  us?  Happy  to  see 
you,  boy! — hope  we  shall  not  lose  you  again  in  a hurry.  We 
can’t  spare  the  scapegraces!  There’s  plenty  of  skirmishing  going 
on.  Crawford  always  asks  for  the  scapegraces  for  the  pickets!” 

I shook  my  gallant  Colonel’s  hand,  while  I acknowledged  as 
best  I might  his  ambiguous  compliment. 

“I  say,  lads,”  resumed  the  Colonel;  “squad  your  men  and 
form  on  the  road!  Lord  Wellington’s  coming  down  this  way  to 
have  a look  at  you;  O’Malley,  I have  General  Crawford’s  orders 
to  offer  YOU  your  old  appointment  on  his  staff;  without  you  pre- 
fer remaining  with  the  regiment!” 

“ I can  never  be  sufficiently  grateful,  sir,  to  the  General,  but, 
in  fact — I think — that  is,  I believe ” 

“ You’d  rather  be  among  your  own  fellows.  Out  with  it,  boy! 
I like  you  all  the  better!  but  come,  we  mustn’t  let  the  General 
know  that;  so  that  I shall  forget  to  tell  you  all  about  it.  Eh? 
isn’t  that  best  ? But  join  your  troop  now;  I hear  the«taff  com- 
ing this  way.” 

As  he  spoke,  a crowd  of  horsemen  were  seen  advancing  to- 
ward us  at  a sharp  trot;  their  waving  plumes  and  gorgeous 
aiguillettes  denoting  their  rank  as  generals  of  division.  In  the 
midst,  as  they  came  nearer,  I could  distinguish  one  whom,  once 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


86 


^een,  there  was  no  forgetting;  his  plain  blue  frock  and  gray 
trowsers  unstrapped  beneath  his  boots,  not  a little  unlike  the 
trim  accuracy  of  the  costume  around  him.  As  he  rode  to  the 
head  of  the  leading  squadron,  the  staff  fell  back  and  he  stood 
" alone  before  us;  for  a second  there  was  a dead  silence,  but  the 
next  instant — by  what  impulse  tell  who  can — one  tremendous 
cheer  burst  from  the  entire  regiment.  It  was  like  the  act  of  one 
man;  so  sudden,  so  spontaneous.  While  every  cheek  glowed, 
and  every  eye  sparkled  with  enthusiasm,  he  alone  seemed  cool 
and  unexcited,  as  gently  raising  his  hand  he  motioned  them  to 
silence. 

“Fourteenth,  you  are  to  be  where  you  always  desire  to  be — 
in  the  advanced  guard  of  the  army.  I have  nothing  to  say  on 
the  subject  of  your  conduct  in  the  field,  I know  you;  but,  if  in 
pursuit  of  the  enemy,  I hear  of  any  misconduct  toward  the  peo- 
ple of  the  country,  or  any  transgression  of  the  general  orders 
regarding  pillage,  I‘ll  punish  you  as  severely  as  the  worst  crops 
in  the  service,  and  you  know  me.” 

“ Oh,  tare  and  ages,  listen  to  that;  and  there’s  to  be  no  plunder 
after  all,”  said  Mickey  Free,  and  for  an  instant  the  most  I could 
do  was  not  to  burst  into  a fit  of  laughter.  The  word  “ Forward” 
was  given  at  the  moment,  and  we  moved  past  in  close  column, 
while  that  penetrating  eye  which  seemed  to  read  our  very 
thoughts  scanned  us  from  one  end  of  the  line  to  the  other. 

“ I say,  Charley,”  said  the  Captain  of  my  troop  in  a whisper, 
“Isay,  that  confounded  cheer  we  gave  got  us  that  lesson;  he 
can’t  stand  that  kind  of  thing.” 

“ By  Jove,  I never  felt  more  disposed  than  to  repeat  it,” 
said  I. 

“ No,  no,  my  boy,  we’ll  give  him  the  honors,  nine  times  nine; 
but  wait  till  evening.  Look  at  old  Merivale  there.  I’ll  swear 
he  is  saying  something  very  civil  to  him.  Do  you  see  the  old 
fellow’s  happy  look?” 

And  so  it  was;  the  bronzed  hard  cast  features  of  the  veteran 
soldier  were  softened  into  an  expression  of  almost  boyish  delight, 
as  he  sat  there  bare-headed,  bowing  to  his  very  saddle,  while  Lord 
Wellington  was  speaking. 

I As  I looked,  my  heart  throbbed  painfully  against  my  side, 
my  breath  came  quick,  and  I muttered  to  myself:  “ What  would 
I not  give  to  be  in  his  place  now.” 


CHAPTER  LXXXVII. 

THE  RETREAT  OF  THE  FRENCH. 

It  is  not  my  intention,  were  I even  adequate  to  the  task,  to 
trace  with  anything  like  accuracy  the  events  of  the  war  at  this 
period.  In  fact,  to  those  who,  like  myself,  were  performing  a 
mere  subaltern  character,  the  daily  movements  of  our  own 
troops,  not  to  speak  of  the  continual  changes  of  the  enemy, 
were  perfectly  unknown,  and  an  English  newspaper  was  more 
ardently  longed  for  in  the  Peninsula,  than  by  the  most  eager 
crowd  of  a London  coffee-room;  nay,  the  result  of  the  very 


86 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


engagements  we  were  ourselves  concerned  in  more  than  once, 
first  reached  us  through  the  press  of  our  own  country.  It  is 
easy  enough  to  understand  this.  The  officer  in  command  of  a 
regiment,  and,  how  much  more,  the  Captain  of  a troop,  or  the 
subaltern  under  him,  knows  nothing  beyond  the  sphere  of  his. 
own  immediate  duty;  by  the  success  or  failure  of  his  own  party 
his  knowledge  is  bounded,  but  how  far  he  or  his  may  influence 
the  fortune  of  the  day  or  wliat  is  taking  place  elsewhere,  he  is 
totally  ignorant;  and  an  old  Fourteenth  man  did  not  badly  ex- 
plain his  ideas  on  the  matter,  who  described  Busaco  as  “ a great 
noise  and  a great  smoke,  booming  artillery  and  rattling  small 
arms,  infernal  confusion,  and  to  all  seeming  incessant  blunder- 
ing, orders  and  counter-orders,  ending  with  a crushing  charge, 
when,  not  being  hurt  himself  nor  having  hurt  anybody,  he  felt 
much  pleased  to  learn  that  they  had  gained  a victory.”  It  is 
then  sufficient  for  all  the  purposes  of  my  narrative,  when  I 
mention  that  Massena  continued  his  retreat  by  Santarem  and 
Thomar,  followed  by  the  allied  army,  who,  however  desirous  of 
pressing  upon  the  rear  of  their  enemy,  were  still  obliged  to 
maintain  their  communication  with  the  lines,  and  also  to  watch 
the  movement  of  the  large  armies,  which  under  Ney  and  Soult, 
threatened  at  any  unguarded  moment  to  attack  them  in  flank. 

The  position  which  Massena  occupied  at  Santarem,  naturally 
one  of  great  strength,  and  further  improved  by  intrenchments, 
defled  any  attack  on  the  part  of  Lord  Wellington,  until  the 
arrival  of  the  long-expected  re-enforcements  from  England. 
These  had  sailed  in  the  early  part  of  January,  but,  delayed  by 
adverse  winds,  only  reached  Lisbon  on  the  second  of  March,  and 
so  correctly  was  the  French  Marshal  apprised  of  the  circum- 
stance, and  so  accurately  did  he  anticipate  the  probable  result, 
that  on  the  fourth  he  broke  up  his  encampment,  and  recom- 
menced his  retrograde  movement,  with  an  army  now  reduced 
to  forty  thousand  flghting  men,  and  with  two  thousand  sick; 
destroying  all  his  baggage  and  guns  that  could  not  be  horsed. 
By  a demonstration  of  advancing  upon  the  Zezere,  by  which  he 
held  the  allies  in  check,  he  succeeded  in  passing  his  wounded  to 
the  rear,  while  Ney,  appearing  with  a large  force  suddenly  at 
Leiria,  seemed  bent  upon  attacking  the  lines;  by  these  strata- 
gems two  days’  march  were  gained,  and  the  French  retreated 
upon  Torres  Nevas  and  Thomar,  destroying  the  bridges  behind 
them  as  they  passed. 

The  day  was  breaking  on  the  12th  of  March,  when  the  British 
first  came  in  sight  of  the  retiring  enemy.  We  were  then  ordered 
to  the  front,  and  broken  up  into  small  parties,  threw  out  as 
skirmishers.  The  French  chasseurs,  usually  not  indisposed  to 
accept  this  species  of  encounter,  showed  now  less  of  inclination 
than  usual,  and  either  retreated  before  us,  or  hovered  in  masses 
to  check  our  advance;  in  this  way  the  morning  was  passed, 
when  toward  noon  we  perceived  that  the  enemy  were  drawn  up 
in  battle  array,  occupying  the  height  above  the  village  of  Redinha. 
The  little  straggling  village  is  situated  in  a hollow  traversed  by 
a narrow  causeway,  which  opens  by  a long  and  dangerous  defile 
upon  a bridge;  on  either  side  of  which  a dense  wood  afforded  a 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY.  87 

shelter  for  light  troops,  while  upon  the  commanding  eminence 
above,  a battery  of  heavy  guns  was  seen  in  position. 

In  front  of  the  village  a brigade  of  artillery  and  a division  of 
infantry  were  drawn  up  so  skillfully  as  to  give  the  appearance  of 
a considerable  force,  so  that  when  Lord  Wellington  came  up,  he 
spent  some  time  in  examining  the  enemy’s  position.  Er^^kine’s 
brigade  was  immediately  ordered  up,  and  the  Fifty-second  and 
Ninety -fourth,  and  a company  of  the  Forty- third  were  led 
against  the  wooded  slopes  upon  the  French  right.  Picton  simuL 
taneously  attacked  the  left,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  both 
successful,  and  Ney’s  position  was  laid  bare;  his  skirmishers, 
however,  continued  to  hold  their  ground  in  front;  and  La 
Farriere,  a colonel  of  hussars,  dashing  boldly  forward  at  this  very 
moment,  carried  off  fourteen  prisoners  from  the  very  front  of 
our  lines.  * Deceived  by  the  confidence  of  the  enemy.  Lord 
Wellington  now  prepared  for  an  attack  in  force.  The  infantry 
were,  therefore,  formed  into  line,  and,  at  the  signal  of  three  shots 
fired  from  the  center,  began  their  forward  movement. 

Bending  up  a gentle  curve,  the  whole  plain  glistened  with  the 
glancing  bayonets,  and  the  troops  marched  majestically  onward; 
while  the  light  artillery  and  the  cavalry  bounding  forward  from 
the  left  and  center,  rushed  eagerly  toward  the  foe.  One  deafen- 
ing discharge  from  the  French  guns  opened  at  the  moment,  with 
a general  volley  of  small  arms.  The  smoke  for  an  instant 
obscured  everything;  and  when  that  cleared  away  no  enemy 
was  to  be  seen. 

The  British  pressed  madly  on,  like  heated  blood-hounds,  but, 
when  they  descended  the  slope,  the  village  of  Eedinha  was  in 
flames,  and  the  French  in  full  retreat  beyond;  a single  howitzer 
seemed  our  only  trophy,  and  even  this  we  were  not  destined  to 
boast  of,  for  from  the  midst  of  the  crashing  flames  and  dense 
smoke  of  the  burning  village,  a troop  of  dragoons  rushed  for- 
ward, and  charging  our  infantry,  carried  it  off.  The  struggle, 
though  but  for  a moment,  cost  them  dear;  twenty  of  their  com- 
rades lay  dead  upon  the  spot;  but  they  were  resolute  and  deter- 
mined, and  the  officer  who  led  them  on,  fighting  hand  to  hand 
with  a soldier  of  the  Forty-second,  cheered  them  as  they  retired. 
His  gallant  bearing,  and  his  coat  covered  with  decorations  be- 
spoke him  one  of  note,  and  well  it  might;  he  who  thus  periled 
his  life  to  maintain  the  courage  of  his  soldiers  at  the  commence- 
ment of  a retreat,  was  no  other  than  Ney  himself,  le  plus  brave 
des  braves.  The  British  pressed  hotly  on,  and  the  light  troops 
crossed  the  river  almost  at  the  same  time  with  the  French.  Ney, 
however,  fell  back  upon  Condeixa,  where  his  main  body  was 
posted,  and  all  further  pursuit  for  the  present  was  abandoned. 

At  Casa  Noval  and  at  Foz  d’Aronce,  the  allies  were  successful; 
but  the  French  still  continued  to  retire,  burning  the  towns  and 
villages  in  their  rear,  and  devastating  the  country  along  the 
whole  line  of  march  by  every  expedient  of  cruelty  the  heart  of 
man  has  ever  conceived.  In  the  words  of  one  whose  descrip- 
tions, however  fraught  with  the  most  wonderful  power  of  paint- 
ing, are  equally  marked  by  truth:  “ Every  horror  that  could 
make  war  hideous  attended  this  dreadful  march.  Distress,  con- 


88 


CHARLES  aMALLET. 


flagration,  death  in  all  modes — from  wounds,  from  fatigue,  from 
water,  from  the  flames,  from  starvation — vengeance,  unlimited 
vengeance — was  on  every  side.”  The  country  was  a deserti 

Such  was  the  exhaustion  pf  the  allies,  who  suffered  even 
greater  privations  than  the  enemy,  that  they  halted  upon  the 
16th,  unable  to  proceed  further,  and  the  river  Ceira,  swollen  and 
unfordable  flowed  between  the  rival  armies. 

“ The  repose  of  even  one  day  was  a most  grateful  interruption  to 
the  harassing  career  we  had  pursued  for  some  time  past;  and  it 
seemed  that  my  comrades  felt,  like  myself,  that  such  an  oppor- 
tunity was  by  no  means  to  be  neglected;  but,  while  I am  de- 
voting so  much  space  and  trespassing  on  my  readers’  patience 
thus  far  with  narrative  of  flood  and  fleld,  let  me  steal  a chap- 
ter for  what  will  sometim(is  seem  a scarcely  less  congenial  topic, 
and  bring  back  the  recollection  of  a glorious  night  in  the  Penin- 
sula. 


CHAPTER  LXXXVIII. 

PATRICK’S  DAY  IN  THE  PENINSULA. 

The  reveille  had  not  yet  sounded,  when  I felt  my  shoulder 
shaken  gently  as  I lay  wrapped  in  my  cloak  beneath  a prickly 
pear-tree. 

‘‘Lieutenant  O’Malley,  sir;  a letter,  sir;  a bit  of  a note,  your 
honor,”  said  a voice  that  bespoke  the  bearer  and  myself  were 
countrymen.  I opened  it,  and  with  difficulty  by  the  "uncertain 
light  read  as  follows: 

“Dear  Charley, 

“ As  Lord  Wellington,  like  a good  Irishman  as  he  is,  wouldn’t 
spoil  Patrick’s  Day  by  marching,  we’ve  got  a little  dinner  at  our 
quarters  to  celebrate  the  holy  times,  as  my  uncle  would  call  it. 
Maurice,  Phil  Grady,  and  some  regular  trumps  will  all  come;  so 
don’t  disappoint  us.  I’ve  been  making  punch  all  night,  and 
Casey,  who  has  a knack  at  pastry,  has  a goose-pie  as  big  as  a 
portmanteau.  Sharp  seven,  after  parade.  The  second-battalion 
of  the  fusiieers  are  quartered  at  Melante,  and  we  are  next  them. 
Bring  any  of  yours  worth  their  liquor.  Power  is,  I know,  ab- 
sent with  the  staff;  perhaps  the  Scotch  Doctor  would  come — try 
him.  Carry  over  a little  mustard  with  you,  if  there  be  such  in 
your  parts. 

“Yours,  D.  O’Shaughnessy. 

Patrick's  Day^  and  raining  like  blazes, 

Seeing  that  the  bearer  expected  an  answer,  I scrawled  the 
words  “ I’m  there”  with  my  pencil,  on  the  back  of  the  note,  and 
again  turned  myself  round  to  sleep.  My  slumbers  were,  however, 
soon  interrupted  once  more;  for  the  bugles  of  the  light  infantry 
and  the  hoarse  trumpet  of  the  cavalry  sounded  the  call,  and  I 
found  to  my  surprise  that,  although  halted,  we  were  by  no  means 
destined  to  a day  of  idleness.  Dragoons  were  already  mounted 
carrying  orders  hither  and  thither,  and  staff-officers  were  gallop- 
ing right  and  left.  A general  order  commanded  an  inspection 
of  the  troops,  and  within  less  than  an  hour  from  daybreak 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


89 


the  whole  army  was  drawn  up  under  arms.  A thin  drizzling 
rain  continued  to  fall  during  the  early  part  of  the  day,  but  the 
sun  gradually  dispersed  the  heavy  vapor;  and,  as  the  bright 
verdure  glittered  in  its  'beams  sending  up  all  the  perfumes  of  a 
southern  clime,  I thought  I had  never  seen  a more  lovely  morn- 
ing. The  staff  was  stationed  upon  a little  knoll  beside  the  river, 
round  the  base  of  which  the  troops  defiled,  at  first  in  orderly, 
then  in  quick  time,  the  bands  playing  and  the  colors  flying.  In 
the  same  brigade  with  us  the  Eighty -Eighth  came,  and,  as  they 
neared  the  Commander-in-Chief , their  quick  step  was  suddenly 
stopped,  and,  after  a pause  of  a few  seconds,  the  band  struck  up 
‘‘  St.  Patrick’s  Day;”  the  notes  were  caught  up  by  the  other  Irish 
regiments,  and,  amid  one  prolonged  cheer  from  the  whole  line, 
the  gallant  fellows  moved  past. 

The  grenadier  company  were  drawn  up  beside  the  road,  and  I 
was  not  long  in  detecting  my  friend  O’Shaughnessy,  who  wore  a 
tremenduous  shamrock  in  his  shako.  “Left  face,  wheel!  quick, 
march!  don’t  forget  the  mustard!”  said  the  bold  Major,  and  a 
loud  roar  of  laughter  from  my  brother  officers  followed  him  off 
the  ground.  I soon  explained  the  injunction,  and , having  invited 
some  three  or  four  to  accompany  me  to  the  dinner,  waited  with 
all  patience  for  the  conclusion  of  the  parade. 

The  sun  was  setting  as  I mounted;  and,  joined  by  Hampden, 
Baker,  the  Doctor,  and  another,  set  out  for  O'Shaughnessy’s 
quarters.  As  we  rode  along,  we  were  continually  falling  in  with 
others  bent  upon  the  same  errand  as  ourselves,  and  ere  we  ar- 
rived at  Melante,  our  party  was  some  thirty  strong;  and  truly  a 
most  extraordinary  procession  did  we  form;  few  of  the  invited 
came  without  some  contribution  to  the  general  stock;  and,  while 
a staff  officer  flourished  a ham,  a smart  hussar  might  be  seen 
with  a plucked  turkey,  trussed  for  roasting;  most  carried  bottles, 
as  the  consumption  of  fluid  was  likely  to  be  considerable;  and 
one  fat  old  Major  jogged  along  on  a broken -winded  pony,  with 
a basket  of  potatoes  on  his  arm.  Good  -fellowship  was  the  order 
of  the  day,  and  certainly  a more  jovial  squadron  seldom  was  met 
together  than  ours.  As  we  turned  the  angle  of  a rising  ground 
a hearty  cheer  greeted  us,  and  we  beheld  in  front  of  an  old  ord- 
nance marquee  a party  of  some  fifty  fellows  engaged  in  all  the 
pleasing  duties  of  the  cuisine,  Maurice,  conspicuous  above  all, 
with  a white  apron  and  a ladle  in  his  hand,  was  running  hither 
and  thither,  advising,  admonishing,  instructing,  and  occasionally 
imprecating;  ceasing  for  a second  his  functions,  he  gave  us  a 
cheer  and  a yell  like  that  of  an  Indian  savage,  and  then  resumed 
his  duties  beside  a huge  boiler,  which,  from  the  frequency  of  his 
explorations  into  its  contents,  we  judged  to  be  punch. 

“ Charley,  my  son.  I’ve  a place  for  you;  don’t  forget.  Where’s 
my  learned  brother  ?— haven’t  you  brought  him  with  you  ? Ah, 
Doctor,  how  goes  it  ?*’ 

“Nat  that  bad,  Master  Quell;  a’  things  considered,  we’ve  had 
awfu’  time  of  it  lately.” 

“ You  know  my  friend  Hampden,  Maurice.  Let  me  introduce 
Mr.  Baker — Mr.  Maurice  Quill.  Where's  the  Major  ?” 

“Here  I am,  my  darling,  and  delighted  to  see  you.  Some  of 


90 


CHARLES  OMALLEY 


yours,  O’Malley,  ain’t  they?  proud  to  have  you,  gentlemen. 
Charley,  we  are  obliged  to  have  several  tables;  but  you  are  to  be 
beside  Maurice,  so  take  your  friends  with  you.  There  goes  the 
roast  beef;  my  heart  warms  to  that  old  tune.” 

Amid  a hurried  recognition  and  shaking  of  hands  on  every 
side,  I elbowed  my  way  into  the  tent,  and  soon  reached  a corner 
where,  at  a table  for  eight,  I found  Maurice  seated  at  one  end; 
a huge  purple-faced  Major,  whom  he  presented  to  us  as  Bob 
Mahon,  occupied  the  other.  O’Shaughnessy  presided  at  the 
table  next  us,  but  near  enough  to  join  in  all  the  conviviality  of 
ours. 

One  must  have  lived  for  some  months  upon  hard  biscuits  and 
harder  beef  to  relish  as  we  did  the  fare  before  us,  and  to  form 
an  estimate  of  our  satisfaction.  If  the  reader  cannot  fancy  Van 
Amburgh’s  lions  in  red  coats  and  epaulets,  he  must  be  content 
to  lose  the  effect  of  the  picture.  A turkey  rarely  fed  more  than 
two  people,  and  few  were  abstemious  enough  to  be  satisfied  with 
one  chicken.  The  order  of  the  viands,  too,  observed  no  common 
routine,  each  party  being  happy  to  get  what  he  could,  and  satis- 
fied to  follow  ap  his  pudding  with  fish,  or  his  tart  with  a sau- 
sage. Sherry,  champagne,  London  porter,  Malaga,  and  even,  I 
believe  Harvey’s  sauce,  were  hob-nobbed  in;  while  hot  punch, 
in  tea  cups  or  tin  vessels,  was  unsparingly  distributed  on  all 
sides.  Achilles  himself,  they  say,  got  tired  of  eating,  and  though 
he  consumed  something  like  a prize  ox  to  his  own  cheek,  he  at 
length  had  to  call  for  cheese,  so  that  we  at  last  gave  in,  and  hav- 
ing cleared  away  the  broken  tumbrels  and  baggage  carts  of  our 
army,  cleared  for  a general  action.  “Now  lads!”  cried  the 
Major,  “ I’m  not  going  to  lose  your  time  and  mine,  by  speaking, 
but  there  are  a couple  of  toasts,  I must  insist  upon  your  drink- 
ing with  all  the  honors;  and,  as  I like  dispatch,  we'll  couple 
them.  It  so  happens  that  our  old  island  boasts  of  two  of  the 
finest  fellows  that  ever  wore  Eussia  ducks.  None  of  your  non- 
sensical geniuses,  like  poets,  or  painters,  or  anything  like  that; 
but  downright  straightforward,  no  humbug  sort  of  devil-may- 
care  and  bad-luck-to-you  kind  of  chaps,  real  Irishmen!  Now, 
it’s  a strange  thing  that  they  both  had  such  an  antipathy  to 
vermin,  they  spent  their  life  in  hunting  them  down  and  destroy- 
ing them;  and  whether  they  met  toads  at  home,  or  Johnny 
Crapauds  abroad,  it  was  all  one.  (Cheers.)  Just  so,  boys;  they 
made  them  leave  that;  but  I see  you  are  impatient,  so  I’ll  not 
delay  you,  but  fill  to  the  brim,  and,  with  the  best  cheer  in  your 
body,  drink  with  me  to  the  two  greatest  Irishmen  that  ever  liv- 
ed, ‘ St.  Patrick  and  Lord  Wellington.’  ” 

The  Englishmen  laughed  long  and  loud,  while  we  cheered  with 
an  energy  that  satisfied  even  the  Major. 

“ Who  is  to  give  us  the  chant?  Who  is  to  sing  St.  Patrick?” 
cried  Maurice.  “ Come,  Bob,  but  with  it.” 

“I’m  four  tumblers  too  low  for  that  yet,”  growled  out  the 
Major. 

“ Well,  then,  Charley,  be  you  the  man;  or  why  not  Dennis 
himself?  Come,  Dennis,  we  cannot  better  begin  our  evening 
than  with  a song;  let  us  have  our  old  friend  Larry  M’Hale.*' 


CHARLES  a^MALLEY 


Larry  M’Hale,”  resounded  from  all  parts  of  the  to^,  while 
O’Shaughnessy  rose  once  more  to  his  legs. 

“ I^ith,  boys,  I’m  always  ready  to  follow  your  lead,  but  what 
analogy  can  exist  between  Larry  M’Hale  and  the  toast  we  have 
just  drunk  I can’t  see,  for  the  life  of  me;  not  but  Larry  would 
have  made  a strapping  light  company  man  had  he  joined  the 
"army.’^ 

“ The  song,  the  song  I”  cried  several  voices. 

“ Well,  if  you  will  have  it,  here  goes.” 

LARRY  M’HALE. 

Air—^*"  it’s  a bit  op  a thing,”  &C. 

•*  Oh,  Larry  M’Hale  he  had  little  to  fear, 

And  never  could  want  when  the  crops  didn’t  fail, 

He’d  a house  and  demesne  and  eight  hundred  a year, 

And  the  heart  for  to  spend  it  had  Larry  M’Hale! 

The  soul  of  the  party,  the  life  of  a feast — 

An  illigant  song  he  could  sing.  I’ll  be  bail; 

He  would  ride  with  the  rector,  and  drink  with  the  priest, 

Oh!  the  broth  of  a boy  was  old  Larry  M’Hale. 

“ It’s  little  he  cared  for  the  judge  or  recorder. 

His  house  was  as  big  and  as  strong  as  a jail; 

With  a cruel  four-pounder,  he  kept  all  in  great  order, 

He’d  murder  the  country,  would  Larry  M’Hale. 

He’d  a blunderbuss,  too;  of  horse-pistols  a pair; 

But  his  favorite  weapon  was  always  a flail; 

I wish  you  could  see  how  he’d  empty  a fair. 

For  he  handled  it  neatly,  did  Larry  M’Hale. 

“ His  ancestors  were  kings,  before  Moses  was  born. 

His  mother  descended  from  great  Grana  Uaile: 

He  laughed  all  the  Blakes  and  the  Frenches  to  scorn; 

They  were  mushrooms  compared  to  old  Larry  M’Hale. 

He  sat  down  every  day  to  a beautiful  dinner. 

With  cousins  and  uncles  enough  for  a tail; 

And,  though  loaded  with  debt,  oh!  the  devil  a thinner 
Could  law  or  the  sheriff  make  Larry  M’Hale. 

“ With  a larder  supplied  and  a cellar  well  stored. 

None  lived  half  so  well,  from  Fair-Head  to  Kinsale; 

As  he  piously  said,  ‘ I’ve  a plentiful  board. 

And  the  Lord  he  is  good  to  old  Larry  M’Hale.’ 

So  fill  up  your  glass,  and  a high  bumper  give  him, 

It’s  little  we’d  care  for  the  tithes  or  repale; 

For  ould  Erin  would  be  a fine  country  to  live  in, 

If  we  only  had  plenty  like  Larry  M’Hale.” 

“Very  singular  style  of  person  your  friend  Mr.  M’Hale,” 
lisped  a spoony-looking  cornet  at  the  end  of  the  table. 

“ Not  in  the  country  he  belongs  to,  I assure  you,”  said  Maurice; 
“ but  I presume  you  were  never  in  Ireland  ” 

“ You  are  mistaken  there,”  resumed  the  other;  “ I was  in  Ire- 
land, though  I confess  not  for  a long  time.” 

“ If  I might  be  so  bold.”  cried  Maurice,  “ how  long?” 

“ Half  an  hour,  by  a stop  watch,”  said  the  other,  pulling  up 
his  stock;  “ and  I had  quite  enough  of  it  in  that  time.” 


92 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


‘ ‘ Pi-ay  give  us  your  experiences,”  cried  out  Bob  Mahon ; ‘ ‘ they 
should  be  interesting,  considering  your  opportunities.” 

You  are  right,”  said  the  cornet;  “ they  were  so  ; and,  as  they 
illustrate  a feature  in  your  amiable  country,  you  shall  have 
them.” 

A general  knocking  upon  the  table  announced  the  impatience 
of  the  company,  and  when  silence  was  restored  the  cornet  began: 

“ When  the  Bermuda  transport  sailed  from  Portsmouth  for 
Lisbon,  I happened  to  make  one  of  some  four  hundred  interest- 
ing individuals,  who,  before  they  became  food  for  powder,  were 
destined  to  try  their  constitutions  on  pickled  pork.  The  second 
day  after  our  sailing,  the  winds  became  adverse;  it  blew  a hurri- 
cane from  every  corner  of  the  compass,  but  the  one  it  ought,  and 
the  good  ship,  that  should  have  been  standing  straight  for  the  Bay 
of  Biscay,  was  scudding  away  under  a double-reefed  topsail 
toward  the  coast  of  Labrador.  For  six  days  we  experienced  every 
sea-maneuver  that  usually  preludes  a shipwreck;  and  at  length 
when,  what  from  sea-sickness  and  fear,  we  had  become  utterly 
indifferent  to  the  result,  the  storm  abated,  the  sea  went  down, 
and  we  found  ourselves  lying  comfortably  in  the  harbor  of 
Cork,  with  a strange  suspicion  on  our  minds  that  the  frightful 
scenes  of  the  past  week  had  been  nothing  but  a dream. 

“ ‘ Come,  Mr.  Medlicot,’  said  the  skipper  to  me,  ‘ we  shall  be 
here  for  a couple  of  days  to  refit;  had  you  not  better  go  ashore 
and  see  the  country  ?’ 

“I  sprang  to  my  legs  with  delight;  visions  of  cow-slips,  larks, 
daisies,  and  mutton  chops  floated  before  my  excited  imagina- 
tion, and  in  ten  minutes  I found  myself  standing  at  that  pleasant 
little  inn  at  Cove,  which,  opposite  Spike  Island,  rejoices  in  the 
name  of  the  Goat  and  Garters. 

“ ‘Breakfast,  waiter,’  said  I;  ‘ a beafsteak — fresh  beef,  mark 
ye — fresh  eggs,  bread,  milk,  and  butter;  all  fresh.’  No  more 
hard  tack,  thought  I,  no  salt  butter,  but  a genuine  land  break- 
fast. 

“ ‘ Up-stairs,  No.  4,  sir,’  said  the  waiter,  as  he  flourished  a 
dirty  napkin,  indicating  the  way. 

“Up-stairs  I went,  and  indue  time  the  appetizing  little  de- 
jeuner  made  its  appearance.  Never  did  a miner  s eye  revel  over 
his  broad  acres  with  more  complacent  enjoyment,  than  did  mine 
skim  over  the  mutton  and  the  muffin,  the  teapot,  the  trout,  and 
the  deviled  kidney,  so  invitingly  spread  out  before  me.  Yes, 
thought  I,  as  I smacked  my  lips,  this  is  the  reward  of  virtue; 
pickled  pork  is  a probationary  state  that  admirably  fits  us  for 
future  enjoyments.  I arranged  my  napkin  upon  my  knee, 
seized  my  knife  and  fork,  and  proceeded  with  most  critical  acu- 
men to  bisect  a beefsteak.  Scarcely,  however,  had  I touched  it, 
when  with  a loud  crash  the  plate  smashed  beneath  it,  and  the 
gravy  ran  piteously  across  the  cloth.  Before  I had  time  to  ac- 
count for  the  phenomenon,  the  door  opened  hastily,  and  the 
waiter  rushed  into  the  room,  his  face  beaming  with  smiles,  while 
he  rubbed  his  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight. 

“ ‘ It’s  all  over,  sir,’  said  he,  ‘ glory  be  to  God,  it’s  all  done.’ 

“ ‘What’s  over?  what’s  done?’  inquired  I with  impatience. 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


“ * Mr.  M^Mpbon  is  satisfied,’  replied  he,  * and  so  is  the  other 
gentleman.’ 

“ ‘ Who  and  what  the  devil  do  you  mean?’ 

“ ‘ It’s  all  over,  sir,  I say,’  replied  the  waiter  again;  *he  fired 
in  the  air.’ 

“ ‘ Fired  in  the  air.  Was  there  a duel  in  the  room  below 
stairs  ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes,  sir,’  said  the  waiter,  with  a benign  smile. 

‘ That  will  do,’  said  I,  as  seizing  my  hat  I rushed  out  of  the 
house,  and  hurrying  to  the  beach  took  a boat  for  the  ship. 
Exactly  half  an  hour  had  elapsed  since  my  landing,  but  even 
those  short  thirty  minutes  had  fully  as  many  reasons  that,  al- 
though there  may  be  few  more  amusing,  there  are  some  safer 
places  to  live  in  than  the  green  island.” 

A general  burst  of  laughter  followed  the  cornet’s  story,  which 
was  heightened  in  its  effect  by  the  gravity  with  which  he  told  it. 

^‘And,  after  all,”  said  Maurice  Quill,  “now  that  people  have 
given  up  making  fortunes  for  the  insurance  companies  by  living 
to  the  age  of  Methuselah,  there’s  nothing  like  being  an  Irishman. 
Into  what  other  part  of  the  habitable  globe  can  you  cram  so 
much  of  adventure  into  on^  year  ? Where  can  you  be  so  often  in 
love,  in  liquor,  or  in  debt  ? and  where  can  you  get  so  merrily 
out  of  the  three  ? Where  are  promises  to  marry  and  promises 
to  pay  treated  with  the  same  gentlemanly  forbearance  ? and 
where,  when  you  have  lost  your  heart  and  your  fortune,  are 
people  found  so  ready  to  comfort  you  in  your  reverses?  Yes,” 
said  Maurice,  as  he  filled  his  glass  up  to  "the  brim,  and  eyed  it 
lusciously  for  a moment,  “ yes,  darling,  there’s  your  health ; 
the  only  girl  I ever  loved — in  that  part  of  the  country  I mean. 
Give  her  a bumper,  lads,  and  111  give  you  a chant!” 

“ Name!  name!  name!”  shouted  several  voices  from  different 
parts  of  the  table. 

“ Mary  Draper!”  said  Maurice,  filling  his  glass  once  more, 
while  the  name  was  re-echoed  by  every  lip  at  the  table. 

“The  song!  the  song!” 

“ Faith,  I hope  I haven’t  forgotten  it,”  quoth  Maurice.  “No; 
here  it  is.” 

So  saying,  after  a couple  of  efforts  to  assure  the  pitch  of  his 
voice,  the  worthy  Doctor  began  the  following  words  to  that  very 
popular  melody,  “ Nancy  Dawson:” 

“MARY  DRAPER. 

“Air — NANCY  DAWSON. 

“ Don’t  talk  to  me  of  London  dames, 

Nor  rave  about  your  foreign  flames 
That  never  lived — except  in  dram  is, 

Nor  shone,  except  on  paper; 

I’ll  sing  you  ’bout  a girl  I knew, 

Who  lived  in  Ballywhacmacrew, 

And  let  me  tell  you,  mighty  few 
Could  equal  Mary  Draper, 


CHARLES  O’MALLEY, 


Her  cheeks  were  red,  her  eyes  were  blufe^ 

Her  hair  was  browD  of  deepest  hue, 

Her  foot  was  small,  and  neat  to  view, 

Her  waist  was  slight  and  taper, 

Her  voice  was  music  to  your  ear, 

A lovely  brogue,  so  rich  and  clear, 

Oh,  the  like  I ne’er  again  shall  hear 
As  from  Sweet  Mary  Draper. 

“ She’d  ride  a wall,  she’d  drive  a team, 

Or  with  a fly  she’d  whip  a stream. 

Or  may  be  sing  you  ‘ Rousseau’s  Dream,* 

For  nothing  could  escape  her; 

I’ve  seen  her,  too — upon  my  word — 

At  sixty  yards  bring  down  a bird; 

Oh!  she  charmed  all  the  Forty-third! 

Did  lovely  Mary  Draper, 

“ And  at  the  spring  assizes  ball. 

The  junior  bar  would  one  and  all 
For  all  her  fav’rite  dances  call. 

And  Harry  Deane  would  caper; 

Lord  Clare  would  then  forget  his  lore, 

King’s  Counsel,  voting  law  a bore, 

Were  proud  to  flgure  on  the  floor, 

For  love  of  Mary  Draper. 

“ The  parson,  priest,  sub-sheriff,  too — 

We’re  all  her  slaves — and  so  would  you, 

If  you  had  only  but  one  view 
Of  such  a face  and  shape,  or 
Her  pretty  ankles — but,  ohone! 

It’s  only  west  of  old  Athlone 

Such  girls  were  found — and  now  they’re  gone; 

So  here’s  to  Mary  Draper.” 

“So  here’s  to  Mary  Draper,”  sang  out  every  voice,  in  such 
efforts  to  catch  the  tune  as  pleased  Hie  taste  of  the  motley  as- 
sembly. 

“ For  Mary  Draper  & Co.,  I thank  you,”  said  Maurice.  “ Quill 
drinks  to  Dennis,”  added  he  in  a grave  tone,  as  he  nodded  to 
O’Shaughnessy.  “Yes,  Shaugh,  few  men  better  than  ourselves 
know  these  matters,  and  few  have  had  more  experience  of  the 
three  perils  of  Irishmen — love,  liquor,  and  the  law  of  arrest.” 

“ It’s  little  the  latter  has  ever  troubled  my  father’s  son,”  replied 
O’Shaughnessy;  “ our  family  have  been  writ  proof  for  centuries, 
and  he’d  have  been  a bold  man  who  would  have  ventured  with 
an  original  or  true  copy  within  the  precincts  of  Killinahoula.” 

“ Your  father  had  a touch  of  Larry  M’Hale  in  him,”  said  I, 
“ apparently.” 

“ Exactly  so,”  replied  Dennis;  “not  but  they  caught  him  at 
last;  and  a scurvy  trick  it  was,  and  well  worthy  of  him  who  did 
iti  Yes,”  said  he,  with  a sigh,  “it  is  only  another  among  the 
many  instances  where  the  better  features  of  our  nationality 
have  been  used  by  our  enemies  as  instruments  for  our  destruc- 
tion; and  should  we  seek  for  the  causes  of  unhappiness  in  our 
wretched  country,  we  should  find  them  rather  in  our  virtue® 


CHATtLES  O'MALLEY. 


95 


tban  in  our  vices,  aod  in  the  bright  rather  than  in  the  darker 
phases  of  our  character.” 

“ Metaphysics,  by  Jove.^’  cried  Quill,  ‘‘but  all  true  at  the  same 
time.  There  was  a messmate  of  mine  in  the  Roscommon  who 
never  paid  car-hire  in  his  life.  ‘ Head  or  harp,  Paddy!’  he 
would  cry.  ‘ Two  pennies  or  nothing.’  ‘ Harp!  for  the  honor 
of  old  Ireland,’  was  the  invariable  response,  and  my  friend  was 
equally  sure  to  make  head  come  uppermost;  and,  upon  my  soul, 
they, seem  to  know  the  trick  at  the  Home  Office.” 

“That  must  have  been  the  same  fellow  that  took  my  father,” 
cried  O’Shaughnessy,  with  energy. 

“ Let  us  hear  the  story,  Dennis,”  said  I. 

“Yes,”  said  Maurice,  “for  the  benefit  of  self  and  fellows,  let 
us  hear  the  stratagem!” 

“The  way  of  it  was  this,”  resumed  O’Shaughnessy;  “my 
father,  who,  for  reasons  registered  in  the  King’s  Bench,  spent  a 

freat  many  years  of  bis  life  in  that  part  of  Ireland  geographically 
nown  as  lying  west  of  the  law,  was  obliged,  for  certain  reasons 
of  family,  to  come  up  to  Dublin.  This  he  proceeded  to  do  with 
due  caution;  two  trusty  servants  formed  an  advance  guard,  and 
patrolled  the  country  for  at  least  five  miles  in  advance;  after 
them  came  a skirmishing  body  of  a few  tenants,  who,  for  the 
consideration  of  never  paying  rent,  would  have  charged  the 
whole  Court  of  Chancery,  if  needful.  My  father  himself,  in 
an  old  chaise  victualed  like  a fortress,  brought  up  the  rear; 
and,  as  I said  before,  he  was.  a bold  man  who  would  have  at- 
tempted to  have  laid  siege  to  him.  As  the  column  advanced 
into  the  enemy’s  country,  they  assumed  a closer  order,  the  pa- 
trol and  the  picket  falling  back  upon  the  main  body;  and  in  this 
way  they  reached  that  most  interesting  city  called  Kilbeggan. 
What  a fortunate  thing  it  is  for  us  in  Ireland  that  we  can  see  so 
much  of  the  world  without  foreign  travel,  and  that  any  gentleman 
for  six  and  eightpencc  can  leave  Dublin  in  the  morning  and  visit 
Timbuctoo  against  dinner  time!  Don’t  stare!  it’s  truth  Pm  tell- 
ing; for  dirt,  misery,  smoke,  unaffected  behavior,  and  black 
faces.  I’ll  back  Kilbeggan  against  all  Africa.  Free-and-easy, 
pleasant  people  ye  are,  with  a skin  as  begrimed  and  as  rugged  as 
your  own  potatoes!  But  to  resume;  the  sun  was  just  rising  in 
a delicious  morning  of  June,  when  my  father — whose  royal  an- 
tipathies I have  mentioned  made  him  also  an  early  riser — was  pre- 
paring for  the  road.  A stout  escort  of  his  followers  were  as 
usual  under  arms  to  see  him  safe  in  the  chaise,  the  passage  to 
and  from  which  every  day  being  the  critical  moment  of  my 
father’s  life. 

“ ‘ It’s  all  right  your  honor,’  said  his  own  man  as,  armed  with 
a blunderbuss,  he  opened  the  bedroom  door. 

“ ‘ Time  enough,  Tim,’  said  my  father;  ‘ close  the  door,  for  I 
haven’t  finished  my  breakfast.’ 

“Now,  the  real  truth  was,  that  my  father’s  attention  was  at 
that  moment  withdrawn  from  his  own  concerns,  by  a scene 
which  was  taking  place  in  a field  beneath  his  window. 

“ But  a few  minutes  before  a hack-chaise  had  stopped  upon 
the  roadside;  out  of  which  sprang  three  gentlemen,  who,  pro- 


CBAHLES  a MALLE  7. 


ceeding  to  the  field,  seemed  bent  upon  something  which,  wheth^ 
er  a survey  or  a duel,  my  father  could  not  make  out.  He  was 
not  long,  however,  to  remain  in  ignorance.  One  with  an  easy 
lounging  gait  strode  toward  a distant  corner;  another  took  an 
opposite  direction;  while  the  third,  a short,  pursy  gentleman,  in 
a red  handkerchef  and  a rabbit-skin  waistcoat,  proceeded  to 
open  a mahogany  box,  which,  to  the  critical  eyes  of  my  respect- 
ed father,  was  agreeably  suggestive  of  bloodshed  and  murder. 

‘A  duel,  by  Jupiter  I’  said  my  father,  rubbing  his  hands. 
‘ What  a heavenly  morning  the  scoundrels  have,  not  a leaf 
stirring,  and  a sod  like  a billiard-table.’ 

“ Meanwhile,  the  little  man  who  officiated  as  second,  it  would 
appear,  to  both  parties,  bustled  about  with  activity  little  congen- 
ial to  his  shape;  and,  what  between  snapping  the  pistols,  exam- 
ining the  flints,  and  ramming  down  the  charges,  had  got  liimself 
into  a sufficient  perspiration  before  he  commenced  to  measure 
out  the  ground. 

“ ‘ Short  distance  and  no  quarter!’  shouted  one  of  the  combat- 
ants from  the  corner  of  the  field. 

‘ Across  a handkercliief,  if  you  like!’  roared  the  other. 

‘‘  ‘ Gentlemen,  every  inch  of  them!’  responded  my  father. 

<<  < Twelve  paces!’  cried  the  little  man.  ‘ No  more  and  no  less. 
Don’t  forget  that  I am  alone  in  this  business.’ 

‘‘  ‘ A very  true  remark!’  observed  my  father,  ‘ and  an  awkward 
predicament  yours  will  be  if  they  are  both  shot!’ 

By  this  time  the  combatants  had  taken  their  places,  and  the 
little  man,  having  delivered  the  pistols,  was  leisurely  retiring  to 
give  the  word.  My  father,  however,  whose  critical  eye  was 
never  at  fault,  detected  a circumstance  which  promised  an  im- 
mense advantage  to  one  at  the  expense  of  the  other;  in  fact,  one 
of  the  parties  was  so  placed  with  his  back  to  the  sun  that  his 
shadow  extended  in  a straight  line  to  the  very  foot  of  his  antag- 
onist. 

“ ‘Unfair!  unfair!’  cried  my  father,  opening  the  window  as 
he  spoke,  and  addressing  himself  to  him  of  the  rabbit-skin.  ‘ I 
crave  your  pardon  for  the  interruption,’  said  he,  ‘ but  I feel 
bound  to  observe  that  that  gentleman’s  shadow  is  likely  to  be 
made  a shade  of  him.’ 

“ ‘ And  so  it  is,’  observed  the  short  man;  ‘ a thousand  thanks 
for  your  kindness;  ‘ but  the  truth  is,  I am  totally  unaccustomed 
to  this  kind  of  thing,  and  the  affair  will  not  admit  of  delay.’ 

“ ‘ Not  an  hour!’  said  one. 

“ ‘ Not  five  minutes!’  growled  the  other  of  the  combatants. 

“ ‘ Put  them  up  north  and  south!’  said  my  father. 

“ ‘ Is  it  thus?’ 

“‘Exactly  so;  but  now  again  the  gentleman  in  the  brown 
coat  is  covered  with  the  ash-tree.’ 

“‘And  so  he  is!’  said  rabbit- skin,  wiping  his  forehead  with 
agitation. 

“ ‘ Move  them  a little  to  the  left,’  said  he. 

“ ‘ That  brings  me  upon  an  eminence,’  said  the  gentleman  in 
blue;  ‘ I’ll  de  d d if  I’ll  be  made  a cock-shot  of.* 


CHARLES  aMALLEY.  97 

* What  an  awkward  little  thing  it  is  in  the  hai^  waistcoat !’ 
said  my  father;  ‘ he’s  lucky  if  he  don’t  get  shot  himself.’ 

‘ May  I aever  I if  I’m  not  sick  of  you  both  !’  ejaculated  rab- 
bit-skin,' in  a passion.  ‘ IVe  moved  you  round  every  point  of 
the  compass,  and  the  devil  a nearer  we  are  than  ever.’ 

“ ‘ Give  us  the  word,’  said  one. 

“ ‘ The  word  V 

“ ‘ Downright  murder,’  said  my  father. 

“‘I  don’t  care,’ said  the  little  man;  ‘we  shall  be  here  till 
doomsday.’ 

“‘I  can’t  permit  this,’  said  my  father.  ‘Allow  me;’  so 
saying  he  stepped  upon  the  window-sill  and  leaped  down  into  the 
field. 

“ ‘ Before  I can  accept  of  your  politeness,’  said  he  of  the  rab- 
bit-skin, ‘may  I beg  to  know  your  name  and  position  in 
society  ?’ 

“‘Nothing  more  reasonable,’  said  my  father.  ‘I’m  Miles 
O’Shaughnessy;  Colonel  of  the  Royal  Raspers;  here  is  my  card.’ 

‘*  The  piece  of  pasteboard  was  complacently  handed  from  one 
to  the  other  of  the  party,  who  saluted  my  father  with  a smile  of 
most  courteous  benignity. 

“ ‘ Colonel  O’Shaughnessy,’  said  one. 

“ ‘Miles  O’Shaughnessy,’  said  another. 

“ ‘ Of  Killinahoula  Castle,’  said  the  third. 

“ ‘At  your  service,’  said  my  father,  bowing  as  he  presented 
his  snuff-box;  ‘ and  now  to  business,  if  you  please;  for  my  time 
also  is  limited.’ 

“ ‘ Very  true,’  observed  he  of  the  rabbit- skin.  ‘ and,  as  you  ob- 
serve, now  to  business;  in  virtue  of  which.  Colonel  Miles 
O’Shaughnessy,  I hereby  arrest  you  in  the  King’s  name.  Here  is 
the  writ;  it’s  at  the  suit  of  Barnaby  Kelly,  of  Loughrea,  for  the 
sum  of  £1583  19s.  7 l-2d,  which ’ 

• “ Before  he  could  conclude  his  sentence,  my  father  dis- 
charged one  obligation,  by  implanting  his  closed  knuckles  in 
his  face.  The  blow,  well  aimed  and  well  intended,  sent  the  little 
fellow  somersaulting  like  a sugar  hogshead.  But,  alas!  it  was 
of  no  use,  the  others,  strong  and  able-bodied,  fell  both  upon 
him,  and  after  a desperate  struggle  succeeded  in  getting  him 
down.  To  tie  bis  hands,  and  convey  him  to  the  chaise,  was  the 
work  of  a few  moments;  and  as  my  father  drove  by  the  inn,  the 
last  object  which  caught  his  view  was  a bloody  encounter  be- 
tween his  own  people  and  the  myrmidons  of  the  law,  who  in 
great  numbers  had  laid  siege  to  the  house  during  his  capture. 
Thus  was  my  father  taken;  and  thus,  in  reward  for  yielding  to 
a villainous  weakness  in  his  character,  was  he  consigned  to  the 
ignominious  durance  of  a prison.  Was  I not  right,  then,  in 
saying  that  such  is  the  melancholy  position  of  our  country,  the 
most  beautiful  traits  iii  our  character  are  converted  into  the 
elements  of  ruin  ?” 

“ I dinna  think  ye  hae  made  out  your  case.  Major,”  said  the 
Scotch  Doctor,  who  felt  sorely  puzzled  at  my  friend’s  logic. 
“If  your  f aether  had  na’  gi’en  the  bond ” 

“.There’s  no  saying  what  he  wouldn’t  have  done  to  the  bail- 


98  CHARLES  SMALLEY 

iffs,”  interrupted  Dennis,  who  was  following  up  a very  different 
train  of  reasoning. 

‘‘I  fear  me,  Doctor,”  observed  Quill,  ‘‘you  are  very  much 
behind  us  in  Scotland.  Not  but  that  some  of  your  chieftains 
are  very  respectable  men,  and  wouldn’t  get  on  badly  even  in 
Galway.” 

“ I thank  thee  muckle  for  the  compliment,”  said  the  Doctor 
dryly:  “but  I hae  my  doubts  they’d  think  it  ane,  and  they’re 
crusty  carls  that’s  no  ower  safe  to  meddle  wi.” 

“I’d  as  soon  propose  a hand  of  spoiled  fived  to  the  Pope  of 
Eome  as  a joke  to  one  of  them,”  returned  Maurice. 

“ May  be  ye  are  no  wrang  there,  Master  Quell.” 

Well,”  cried  Hampden,  “ if  I may  be  allowed  an  opinion,  I 
can  safely  aver  I know  no  quarters  like  Scotland.  Edinburgh 
beyond  anything  or  anywhere  I was  ever  placed  in. 

“Always  after  Dublin,”  interposed  Maurice,  while  a general 
chorus  of  voices  re-echoed  the  sentiment. 

“You  are  certainly  in  a strong  majority,”  said  my  friend, 
“ against  me;  but  still  I recant  not  my  original  opinion.  Edin- 
burgh before  the  world.  For  hospitality  that  never  tires;  for 
pleasant  fellows  that  improve  every  day  of  your  acquaintance; 
for  pretty  girls  that  make  you  long  for  a repeal  of  the  canon 
about  being  only  singly  blessed,  and  lead  you  to  long  for  a score 
of  them;  Edinburgh  before  the  world.” 

“ Their  ankles  are  very  thick,”  whispered  Maurice. 

“A  calumny,  a base  calumny  1” 

“And  then  they  drink ” 

*^Oh ” 

“Yes;  they  drink  very  strong  tea.” 

“ Shall  we  hae  a glass  o’  sherry  together,  Hampden?”  said  the 
Scotch  Doctor,  willing  to  acknowledge  his  defense  of  auld 
Eeekie. 

“ And  we’ll  take  O’Malley  in,”  said  Hampden;  “ he  looks  im- 
ploringly.” 

“And  now  to  return  to  the  charge,”  quoth  Maurice.  “In 
what  particular  dare  ye  contend  the  palm  with  Dublin  ? We’ll 
not  speak  of  beauty.  I can’t  suffer  any  such  profane  turn  in 
the  conversation  as  to  dispute  the  superiority  of  Irish  women’s 
lips,  eyes,  noses,  and  eyebrows,  to  anything  under  heaven. 
We’ll  not  talk  of  gay  fellows;  egad,  we  needn’t.  I’ll  give  you  the 
garrison,  a decent  present;  and  I’ll  back  the  Irish  bar  for  more 
genuine  drollery,  more  epigram,  more  ready  sparkling  fun,  than 
the  whole  rest  of  the  empire — ay,  and  all  her  colonies — can  boast 
of.” 

“ They  are  nae  remarkable  for  passing  the  bottle,  if  they  re- 
semble their  gifted  advocate,”  observed  the  Scotchman. 

“ But  they  are  for  filling  and  emptying  both,  making  its  cur- 
rent as  it  glides  by  like  a rich  stream  glittering  in  the  sunbeams 
with  the  sparkling  luster  of  their  wit.  Lord,  how  I’m  blown! 
Fill  my  panniken,  Charley;  there’s  no  subduing  a Scot.  Talk 
with  him,  fight  with  him,  and  he’ll  always  have  the  best  of  it; 
there’s  only  one  way  of  concluding  the  treaty ” 

“ And  that  is ” 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


99 


‘‘Blarney  him.  Lord  bless  you,  he  can’t  stand  it.  Tell  him 
Holy  rood’s  like  Versailles,  and  the  Trosachs  finer  than  Mount 
Blanc;  that  Geordie  Buchanan  was  Homer,  and  the  Cannongate 
Herculaneum — ^then  ye  have  him  on  the  hip.  Now  ye  never  can 
humbug  an  Irishman  that  way;  h©  knows  you’re  quizzing  him 
when  you  praise  his  country.” 

“Ye  are  right,  Hampden,”  said  the  Scotch  Doctor,  in  reply  to 
some  observation.  “ We  are  vara  primitive  in  the  Hielands,  and 
we  keep  to  our  ain  national  customs  in  dress  and  everything;  and 
we  are  vara  slow  to  learn;  and  even  when  we  try  we  are  nae 
ower  successfu’  in  our  imitations,  which  sometimes  cost  us 
dearly  enough.  Ye  may  have  heard,  may  be,  of  the  M’Nab  o’  that 
ilk,  and  what  happened  him  with  the  King’s  equerry  ?” 

“ I am  not  quite  certain,”  said  Hampden,  “ if  I ever  heard  the 
story.” 

“ It’s  nae  muckle  of  a story,  but  the  way  of  it  was  this:  When 
Montrose  came  back  from  London,  he  brought  with  him  a few 
Englishers,  to  show  them  the  Highlands,  and  let  them  see  some- 
thing of  deer-stalking.  Among  the  res^  a certain  Sir  George 
Sower  by,  an  aid-de-camp  or  an  equerry  to  the  prince.  He  went 
out  every  morning  to  shoot,  with  his  hair  curled  like  a woman, 
and  dressed  like  a dancing-master.  Now,  there  happened  to  be 
at  the  same  time  at  the  castle  the  Laird  o’  M’Nab;  he  was  a kind 
of  cousin  of  the  Montrose;  and  a rough  old  tyke  of  the  true 
Highland  breed — wha  thought  that  the  head  of  a clan  was  fully 
equal  to  any  king  or  prince.  He  sat  opposite  to  Sir  George  at 
dinner  the  day  of  his  arrival,  and  could  no  conceal  his  surprise 
at  the  many  new-fangled  ways  of  feeding  himself  the  Englisher 
adopted.  He  ate  his  salmon  wi’  his  fork  in  ae  hand  and  a bit- 
tock  of  bread  in  the  other;  he  would  na  touch  the  whisky; 
helped  himself  to  a cutlet  wi’  his  fingers;  but,  what  was  maist 
extraordinary  of  all,  he  wore  a pair  of  braw  white  gloves  during 
the  whole  time  o’  dinner;  and,  when  they  came  to  tak’  away  the 
cloth,  he  drew  them  off  with  a great  air,  and  threw  them  into 
the  middle  of  it,  and  then,  leisurely  taking  another  pair  off  a 
silver  salver  which  his  ain  man  presented,  he  put  them  on  for 
the  dessert.  The  M’Nab,  who,  although  an  auld  fashioned  carle, 
was  ay  fond  of  bringing  something  new  hame  to  his  friends, 
remarked  the  Englisher’s  proceeding  with  great  care,  and  the 
next  day  he  appeared  at  dinner  wi’  a huge  pair  of  Highland  mit- 
tens, which  he  wore  to  the  astonishment  of  all,  and  the  amuse- 
ment of  most,  through  the  whole  three  courses,  and  exactly  as 
the  Englishman  changed  his  gloves,  the  M’Nab  produced  a fresh 
pair  of  goat’s  wool,  four  times  as  large  as  the  first,  which,  draw- 
ing on  with  prodigious  gravity,  he  threw  the  others  into  the 
middle  of  the  cloth,  remarking  as  he  did  so; 

“ ‘ Ye  see.  Captain,  we  are  never  ower  auld  to  learn.’ 

‘ ‘All  propriety  was  now  at  an  end,  and  a hearty  burst  of  laughter 
from  one  end  of  the  table  to  the  other  convulsed  the  whole  com- 
pany, the  M’Nab  and  the  Englishman  being  the  only  persons 
who  did  not  join  in  it,  but  sat  glowering  at  each  other  like  twa 
tigers;  and,  indeed,  it  need  a’  the  Montrose’s  interference  that 
they  hadna  quarreled  upon  it  in  the  morning.” 


too 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


**  The  M’Nab  was  a man  after  my  own  heart,”  said  Maurice; 
“ there  was  something  very  Irish  in  the  lesson  he  gave  the  En- 
glishman.” 

“Td  rather  ye’d  told  him  that  than  me,”  said  the  Doctor, 
dryly;  “ he  would  na  hae  thanked  ye  for  mistaking  him  for  ane 
of  your  own  countrymen.” 

“ Come,  Doctor!”  said  Dennis,  “ could  ye  not  give  us  a stave? 
Have  ye  nothing  that  smacks  of  the  brown  fern  and  the  blue 
lakes  in  your  memory  ?” 

“I  have  na  a sang  in  my  mind  just  noo  except  Johnny  Cope; 
which  may  be  might  not  be  ower  pleasant  for  the  EngUshers  to 
listen  to.”" 

“ I never  heard  a Scotch  song  worth  sixpence,”  quoth  Maurice, 
who  seemed  bent  on  provoking  the  Doctor’s  ire.  ‘ ‘ They  contain 
nothing  save  some  puling  sentimentality  about  lasses  with  lint 
white  locks,  or  some  absurd  laudations  of  the  barley  bree.” 

“Hear  till  him  I hear  till  him!”  said  the  Doctor,  reddening 
with  impatience. 

“ Show  me  anything,”  said  Maurice,  “ like  the  Cruiskeen  Lawn 
or  the  Jug  of  Punch;  but  who  can  blame  them  after  all?  You 
cannot  expect  much  from  a people  with  an  imagination  as  naked 
their  own  knees.” 

“ Maurice,  Maurice,”  cried  O’Shaughnessy,  reprovingly,  who 
saw  that  lie  was  pushing  the  other’s  endurance  beyond  all 
bounds. 

“ I mind  weel,”  said  the  Scotchman,  “ what  happened  to  ane 
o’  your  countrymen  who  took  upon  him  to  jest  as  you  are  doing 
now.  It  was  to  Laurie  Cameron  he  did  it.” 

“ And  what  said  the  redoubted  Laurie  in  reply?” 

“ He  did  na  say  muckle,  but  he  did  something.” 

“ And  what  might  it  be?”  inquired  Maurice. 

“ He  threw  him  ower  the  brig  of  Ayr  into  the  water,  and  he 
was  drowned.” 

“ And  did  Laurie  come  to  no  harm  about  the  matter  ?” 

“ Ay!  they  tried  him  for  it  and  found  him  guilty;  but  when 
they  asked  him  what  he  had  to  say  in  his  defense,  he  merely  re- 
plied, ‘When  the  earl  sneered  about  Scotland,  I did  na  suspect 
that  he  did  na  ken  how  to  swim;’  and  so  the  end  of  it  was,  they 
did  naething  to  Laurie.” 

“ Cool  that,  certainly.”  said  1. 

“I  prefer  your  friend  with  the  mittens,  I confess,”  said  Mau- 
rice, “though  I’m  sure  both  were  most  agreeable  companions. 
But  come,  Doctor,  couldn’t  you  give  us — 

“ ‘Sit  ye  down,  my  heartie,  and  gie  us  a crack, 

Let  the  wind  tak’  the  care  o’  the  world  on  his  back.” 

Ye  mauna  attempt  English  poetry,  my  friend  Quell;  for  it 
must  be  confessed  ye’ve  a accent  of  your  ain.” 

“ Milesian-Phoenician-Coi-kacian:  nothing  more,  my  boy;  and 
a coaxing  kind  of  recitative  it  is,  after  all.  Don't  tell  me  of 
your  soft  Etruscan — your  plethoric  Hoch  Deutsch — your  flatter- 
ing French.  To  woo  and  win  the  girl  of  your  heart,  give  me  ^ 
rich  brogue  and  the  least  taste  in  life  of  blarney!” 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


101 


**  There’s  nothing  like  it,  believe  me — every  inflection  of  your 
voice  suggesting  some  tender  pressure  of  her  soft  hand  or  taper 
waist,  every  cadence  falling  upon  her  gentle  heart  like  a sea- 
breeze  on  a burning  coast,  or  a soft  sirocco  over  a rose-tree;  and 
then  think,  my  boys — and  it’s  a fine  thought  after  all — what  a 
glorious  gift  that  is,  out  of  the  reach  of  kings  to  give  or  to  take, 
what  neither  depends  upon  the  act  of  Union  nor  the  habeas 
corpus.  No!  they  may  starve  us — laugh  at  us — tax  us — trans- 
port us.  They  may  take  our  mountains,  our  valleys,  and  our 
bogs;  but,  bad  luck  to  them,  they  can’t  steal  onr  ‘ blarney;’  that’s 
the  privilege  one  and  indivisible  with  our  identity;  and,  while 
an  Englishman  raves  of  his  liberty — a Scotchman  of  his  oaten- 
meal— blarney’s  our  birthright,  and  a prettier  portion  I’d  never 
ask  to  leave  behind  me  to  my  sons.  If  I’d  as  large  a family  as 
the  ould  gentleman,  called  Priam,  we  used  to  Lear  of  at  school, 
it’s  the  only  inheritance  I’d  give  them;  and  one  comfort  there 
would  be  beside — the  legacy  duty  would  be  only  a trifle.  Charley, 
my  son,  I see  you’re  listening  to  me,  and  nothing  satisfies  me 
more  than  to  instruct  aspiring  youth;  so  never  forget  the  old 
song; 

“ ‘ If  at  your  ease  the  girls  you’d  please, 

And  win  them,  like  Kate  Kearney, 

There’s  but  one  way,  I’ve  heard  them  say, 

Go  kiss  the  Stone  of  Blarney.’  ” 

‘‘What  do  you  say,  Shaugh,  if  we  drink  it  with  all  the 
honors  ?'’ 

“ But  gently,  do  I hear  a trumpet  there?” 

“ Ah,  there  go  the  bugles.  Can  it  be  daybreak  already?” 

“ How  short  the  nights  are  at  this  season,”  said  Quill. 

“ What  an  infernal  rumpus  they’re  making!  It’s  not  possible 
the  troops  are  to  march  so  early.” 

“ It  wouldn’t  surprise  me  in  the  least,”  quoth  Maurice;  “ there’s 
no  knowing  what  the  Commander-in-Chief’s  not  capable  of;  the 
reason’s  clear  enough.” 

“And  why,  Maurice?” 

“ There’s  not  a bit  of  blarney  about  him.” 

The  reveille  sang  out  from  every  brigade,  and  the  drums  beat 
to  faU  in,  while  Mike  came  galloping  up  at  full  speed  to  say  that 
the  bridge  of  boats  was  completed,  and  that  the  Twelfth  were 
already  ordered  to  cross.  Not  a moment  was,  therefore,  to  be 
lost;  one  parting  cup  we  drained  to  our  next  meeting,  and  amid 
a hundred  “ good-byes”  we  mounted  our  horses.  Poor  Hamp- 
den’s brains,  sadly  confused  by  the  wine  and  the  laughing,  he 
knew  little  of  what  was  going  on  around  him,  and  passed  the 
entire  time  of  our  horn  ward  ride  in  a vain  endeavor  to  adapt 
Mary  Draper  to  the  air  of  Eule  Britannia, 


CHAPTER  LXXXIX. 

FUENTES  D’ONORO. 

From  this  period  the  French  continued  their  retreat,  closely 
followed  by  the  allied  armies,  and  on  the  5th  of  April  Massena 
pnce  more  crossed  the  frontier  into  Spain,  leaving  thirty  thou^ 


102 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


sand  of  his  bravest  troops  behind  him,  fourteen  thousand  of 
whom  had  fallen  or  been  taken  prisoners;  re-enforcements,  how- 
ever, came  rapidly  pouring  in.  Two  divisions  of  the  Ninth 
corps  had  already  arrived,  and  Drouet,  with  eleven  thousand 
infantry  and  cavalry,  was  preparing  to  march  to  his  assistance. 
Thus  strengthened,  the  French  army  marched  toward  the  Por- 
tuguese frontier,  and  Lord  Wellington,  who  had  determined  not 
to  hazard  much  by  his  blockade  of  Ciudad  Eodrigo,  fell  back 
upon  the  large  table-land  between  the  Turones  and  the  Dos  Casas, 
with  ,his  left  at  Fort  Conception,  and  his  right  resting  upon 
Fuentes  d’Onoro.  His  position  extended  to  about  five  miles; 
and  here,  although  vastly  inferior  in  numbers,  yet  relying  upon 
the  bravery  of  the  troops  and  the  moral  ascendancy  acquired  by 
their  pursuit  of  the  enemy,  he  finally  resolved  upon  giving  them 
battle. 

Being  sent  with  dispatches  to  Pack’s  brigade,  which  formed 
the  blockading  force  at  Almeida,  I did  not  reach  Fuentes  d’Ono- 
ro until  the  evening  of  the  third.  The  thundering ' of  the 
guns  which,  even  at  the  distance  I was  at,  was  plainly  heard, 
announced  that  an  attack  had  taken  place,  but  it  by  no  means 
prepared  me  for  the  scene  which  presented  itself  on  my  return. 

The  village  of  Fuentes  d’Onoro,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in 
Spain,  is  situated  in  a lovely  valley,  where  all  the  charms  of 
verdure  so  peculiar  to  the  Peninsula  seem  to  have  been  scattered 
with  a lavish  hand.  The  citron  and  the  arbutus,  growing  wild, 
sheltered  every  cottage  door,  and  the  olive  and  the  laurel  threw 
their  shadows  across  the  little  rivulet  which  traversed  the  vil- 
lage. The  houses,  observing  no  uniform  arrangement,  stood 
wherever  the  caprice  or  the  inclination  of  the  builder  suggested, 
surrounded  with  little  gardens;  the  inequality  of  the  ground  im- 
parting a picturesque  feature  to  even  the  lowliest  hut,  while 
upon  a craggy  eminence  above  the  rest,  an  ancient  convent  and 
a ruined  chapel  looked  down  upon  the  little  peaceful  hamlet  with 
an  air  of  tender  protection. 

Hitherto  this  lovely  spot  had  escaped  all  the  ravages  of  war. 
The  light  division  of  our  army  had  occupied  it  for  months  long; 
and  every  family  was  gratefully  remembered  by  some  one  or 
other  of  our  officers;  and  more  than  one  of  our  wounded  found 
in  the  kind  and  affectionate  watching  of  these  poor  peasants  the 
solace  which  solace  rarely  meets  with  when  far  from  home  and 
country. 

It  was  then  with  anxious  heart  I pressed  my  horse  forward 
into  the  gallop  as  the  night  drew  near.  The  artillery  had  been 
distinctly  heard  during  the  day,  and,  while  I burned  with  eager- 
ness to  know  the  result,  I felt  scarcely  less  anxious  for  the  fate 
of  that  little  hamlet  whose  name  many  a kind  story  had  im- 
planted in  my  memory.  The  moon  was  shining  brightly  as  I 
passed  the  outpost;  and,  leading  my  horse  by  the  bridle,  de- 
scended the  steep  and  rugged  causeway  to  the  village  beneath 
me.  The  lanterns  were  moving  rapidly  to  and  fro;  the  measured 
tread  of  infantry  at  night — that  ominous  sound,  which  falls  upon 
the  heart  so  sadly — told  me  that  they  were  burying  the  dead. 
The  air  was  still  and  breathless;  not  a sound  was  stirring  save 


, CHARLES  aMALLEY.  103 

the  step  of  the  soldiery,  and  the  harsh  clash  of  the  shovel  as  it 
struck  the  earth.  I felt  sad,  and  sick  at  heart,  and  leaned  against 
a tree;  a nightingale  concealed  in  the  leaves  was  pouring  forth 
its  plaintiv^e  notes  to  the  night  air,  and  in  its  low  warble  sounded 
like  the  dirge  of  the  departed.  Far  beyond,  in  the  plain,  the 
French  watch-fires  were  burning,  and  I could  see  from  time  to 
time  the  fatigue  parties  moving  in  search  of  their  wounded.  At 
this  moment  the  clock  of  the  convent  struck  eleven,  and  a merry 
chime  rang  out,  and  was  taken  up  in  echoes,  till  it  melted 
away  in  the  distance.  Alas!  where  were  those  whose  hearts 
were  wont  to  be  cheered  at  that  happy  peal,  whose  infancy  it 
had  gladdened,  whose  old  age  it  had  hallowed;  the  fallen  walls, 
the  broken  roof  trees,  the  ruin  and  desolation  on  every  side  told 
too  plainly  that  they  had  passed  away  forever!  The  smoking 
embers,  the  torn-up  pathway  denoted  the  hard-fought  struggle; 
and,  as  I passed  along,  I could  see  that  every  garden,  where  the 
cherry  and  the  apple  blossom  were  even  still  perfuming  the  air, 
had  now  its  sepulcher. 

“ Halt,  there!”  cried  a hoarse  voice  in  front.  ‘‘You  cannot 
pass  this  way;  the  Commander- in-Chief’s  quarters.” 

I looked  up,  and  beheld  a small  but  neat-looking  cottage, 
which  seemed  to  have  suffered  less  than  the  others  around. 
Liglits  were  shining  brightly  from  the  windows,  and  I could 
even  detect  from  time  to  time  a figure  muffled  up  in  a cloak, 
passing  to  and  fro  across  the  window;  while  another  seated  at 
a table  was  occupied  in  writing.  I turned  into  a narrow  path 
which  led  into  the  little  square  of  the  village,  and  here,  as  I ap- 
proached, the  hum  and  murmur  of  voices  announced  a bivouac 
party.  Stopping  to  ask  what  had  been  the  result  of  the  day,  I 
learned  that  a tremendous  attack  had  been  made  by  the  FrenOh 
in  column  upon  the  village,  which  was  at  first  successful;  but, 
that  afterward  the  Seventy-first  and  Seventy  ninth,  marching 
down  from  the  heights,  had  repulsed  the  enemy,  and  driven  them 
beyond  the  Dos  Casas;  five  hundred  had  fallen  in  that  fierce 
encounter,  which  was  continued  through  every  street  and  alley 
of  the  little  hamlet.  The  gallant  Highlanders  now  occupied  the 
battle-field;  and,  hearing  that  the  cavalry  brigade  was  some 
miles  distant,  I willingly  accepted  their  offer  to  share  their 
bivouac,  and  passed  the  remainder  of  the  night  among  them. 

When  day  broke,  our  troops  were  under  arms,  but  the  enemy 
showed  no  disposition  to  renew  the  attack.  We  could  perceive, 
however,  from  the  road  to  the  southward,  by  the  long  columns 
of  dust,  that  re-enforcements  were  still  arriving;  and  learned 
during  the  morning,  from  a deserter,  that  Massena  himself  had 
come  up,  and  Bessieres  also,  with  twelve  hundred  cavalry,  and 
a battery  of  the  imperial  guard. 

From  the  movements  observable  in  the  enemy,  it  was  soon 
evident  that  the  battle,  though  deferred,  was  not  abandoned; 
and  the  march  of  a strong  force  toward  the  left  of  their  position 
induced  our  Commander-in-Chief  to  dispatch  the  Seventh  divi- 
sion, under  Houston,  to  occupy  the  height  of  Naval  d’ Aver — our 
extreme  right— in  support  of  which  our  brigade  of  cavalry 
inarched  as  a covering  force.  The  British  pos\^\cn  was  thus 


104 


CHARLES  aMALLEY.  * 


unavoidably  extended  to  the  enormous  length  of  seven  miles, 
occupying  a succession  of  small  eminences,  from  the  division  at 
Fort  Conception  to  the  height  of  Naval  d’Aver — Fuentes  d’Onoro 
forming  nearly  the  center  of  the  line. 

It  was  evident,  from  the  thickening  combinations  of  the 
French,  that  a more  dreadful  battle  was  still  in  reserve  for  us; 
and  yet  never  did  men  look  more  anxiously  for  the  morrow. 

As  for  myself,  I felt  a species  of  exhilaration  I had  never  be- 
fore experienced;  the  events  of  the  preceding  day  came  drop- 
ping in  upon  me  from  every  side,  and  at  every  new  tale  of  gal- 
lantry or  daring  I felt  my  heart  bounding  with  excited  eagerness 
to  win  also  my  meed  of  honorable  praise. 

Crawford,  too,  had  recognized  me  in  the  kindest  manner;  and, 
while  saying  that  he  did  not  wish  to  witiidraw  me  from  my 
regiment  on  a day  of  battle,  added  that  he  would  make  use  of 
me  for  the  present  on  his  staff.  Thus  was  I engaged,  from  early 
in  the  morning  till  late  in  the  evening,  bringing  orders  and  dis- 
patches along  the  line;  the  troop-horse  I rode — for  I reserved  my 
gray  for  the  following  day — was  scarcely  able  to  carry  me  along, 
as  toward  dark  I journeyed  along  in  the  direction  of  Naval 
d’Aver.  When  I did  reach  our  quarters,  the  fires  were  lighted, 
and  around  one  of  them  I had  the  good  fortune  to  find  a party 
of  the  Fourteenth  occupied  in  discussing  a very  appetizing  little 
supper;  the  clatter  of  plates  and  the  popping  of  champagne 
corks  were  most  agreeable  sounds.  Indeed,  the  latter  appeared 
to  me  so  much  too  flattering  an  allusion,  that  I hesitated  giving 
credit  to  my  senses  in  the  matter,  when  Baker  called  out: 

“Come,  Charley,  sit  dowm;  you’re  just  in  the  nick.  Tom 
M^rsden  is  giving  us  a benefit;  you  know  Tom ” 

And  here  he  presented  me  in  due  form  to  that  best  of  com- 
missaries and  most  hospitable  of  horse-dealers. 

“ I can’t  introduce  you  to  my  friend  on  my  right,”  continued 
Baker,  “ for  my  Spanish  is  only  a skeleton  battalion;  but  he’s  a 
trump — that  I’ll  vouch  for;  never  flinches  his  glass,  and  looks  as 
though  he  enjoyed  all  our  nonsense.” 

The  Spaniard,  who  appeared  to  comprehend  that  he  was  al- 
luded to,  gravely  saluted  me  with  a low  bow,  and  offered  his 
glass  to  hobnob  with  me.  I returned  the  courtesy  with  becom- 
ing ceremony;  while  Hampden  whispered  in  my  ear: 

“ A fine-looking  fellow.  You  know  who  he  is?  Julian  the 
Guerrilla  chief. 

I had  heard  much  of  both  the  strangers.  Tom  Marsden  was  a 
household  word  in  every  cavalry  brigade,  equally  celebrated  for 
his  contracts  and  his  claret.  He  knew  every  one  from  Lord 
Wellington  to  the  last  joined  cornet;  and,  while  upon  a march, 
there  was  no  piece  of  better  fortune  than  to  be  asked  to  dine 
with  him.  So,  in  the  very  thick  of  a battle,  Tom’s  critical  eye 
was  scanning  the  squadrons  engaged,  with  an  accuracy  as  to 
the  number  of  fresh  horses  that  would  be  required  upon  the 
morrow  that  nothing  but  long  practice  and  infinite  coolness 
could  have  confeiTed. 

Of  the  Guerrilla  I need  not  speak.  The  bold  feats  he  accom- 
plished, the  aid  he  rendered  to  the  cause  of  his  country,  have 


CHAHLES  O^MALLEY. 


105 


made  his  name  historical.  Yet  still,  with  all  this,  fatigue,  more 
powerful  than  my  curiosity,  prevailed,  and  I sank  into  a heavy 
sleep  upon  the  grass;  while  my  merry  companions  kept  up  their 
revels  till  near  morning.  The  last  piece  of  consciousness  I am 
sensible  of,  was  seeing  Julian  spreading  his  wide  mantle  over  me 
as  I lay,  while  I heard  his  deep  voice  whisper  a kind  wish  for 
my  repose. 


CHAPTER  XC. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  FUENTES  D’ONORO. 

So  soundly  did  I sleep,  that  the  tumult  and  confusion  of  the 
morning  never  awoke|me;  and  the  Guerrilla,  whose  cavalry  were 
stationed  along  the  edge  of  the  ravine  near  the  heights  of 
Echora,  would  not  permit  of  my  being  roused  before  the  last 
moment.  Mike  stood  near  me  with  my  horses,  and  it  was  only 
when  the  squadrons  were  actually  forming  that  I sprang  to  my 
feet  and  looked  around  me. 

The  day  was  just  breaking;  a thick  mist  lay  upon  the  parched 
earth,  and  concealed  everything  a hundred  yards  from  where  we 
stood.  From  this  dense  vapor  cavalry  defiled  along  the  base  of 
the  hill,  followed  by  the  horse  artillery  and  the  guards,  disap- 
pearing again  as  they  passed  us,  but  proving,  as  the  mass  of 
troops  now  assembled,  that  our  position  was  regarded  as  the  prob- 
able point  of  attack. 

While  the  troops  continued  to  take  up  their  position,  the  sun 
shone  out,  and  a slight  breeze  blowing  at  the  same  moment,  the 
heavy  clouds  moved  past,  and  we  beheld  the  magnificent  pano- 
rama of  the  battle-field.  Before  us,  at  the  distance  of  less  than 
half  a league,  the  French  cavalry  were  drawn  up  in  three  strong 
columns;  the  cuirassiers  of  the  guard,  plainly  distinguished  by 
their  steel  cuirasses,  flanked  by  the  Polish  lancers,  and  a strong 
Hussar  brigade;  a powerful  artillery  train  supported  the  left,  and 
an  infantry  force  occupied  the  entire  space  between  the  right 
and  the  rising  ground  opposite  Poco  Velho.  Further  to  their 
right,  again,  the  column  destined  for  the  attack  of  Fuentes 
d’Onoro  were  forming,  and  we  could  see  that,  profiting  by  their 
past  experience,  tliey  were  bent  upon  attacking  the  village  with 
an  overwhelming  force. 

For  above  two  hours  the  French  continued  to  maneuver,  more 
than  one  alteration  having  taken  place  in  their  disposition;  fresh 
battalions  were  moved  toward  the  front,  and  gradually  the  whole 
of  their  cavalry  was  assembled  on  the  extreme  left  in  front  of 
our  position.  Our  people  were  ordered  to  breakfast  where  we 
stood;  and  a little  after  seven  o’clock  a staff  officer  came  riding 
down  the  line,  followed  in  a few  moments  after  by  General 
Crawford,  when  no  sooner  was  his  well-known  brown  cob  recog- 
nized by  the  troops,  than  a hearty  cheer  greeted  him  along  the 
whole  division. 

“ Thank  ye,  boys,  thank  ye,  boys,  with  all  my  heart.  No  man 
feels  more  sensibly  what  that  cheer  means  than  I do.  Guards! 
Lord  Welhngton  relies  upon  your  maintaining  this  position, 
which  is  essential  to  the  safety  of  the  whole  line.  You  will  be 


106 


CHABLES  a^MALLET. 


supported  by  the  light  division.  I need  say  no  more.  If  such 
troops  cannot  keep  their  ground  nooe  can.  Fourteenth,  there’s 
your  place;  the  artillery  and  the  Sixteenth  are  with  you. 
They’ve  the  odds  of  us  in  numbers,  lads;  but  it  will  tell  all  the 
better  in  the  Gazette.  I see  they’re  moving,  so  fall  in  now;  fall 
in,  and,  Miprivale,  move  to  the  front.  Eamsey,  prepare  to  open 
your  fire  on  the  attacking  squadrons.” 

As  he  spoke,  the  low  murmuring  sound  of  distant  moving 
cavalry  crept  along  the  earth,  growing  louder  and  louder,  till 
at  length  we  could  detect  the  heavy  tramp  of  the  squadron  as 
they  came  on  at  a trot,  our  pace  being  merely  a walk.  While 
we  thus  advanced  into  the  plain  the  artillery  unlimbered  behind 
us,  and  the  Spanish  cavalry,  breaking  into  skirmishers,  dashed 
boldly  to  the  post. 

It  was  an  exciting  moment,.  The  ground  dipped  between  the 
two  armies  so  as  to  conceal  the  head  of  the  advancing  column 
of  the  French;  and,  as  the  Spanish  skirmishers  disappeared 
down  the  ridge,  our  beating  hearts  and  straining  eyes  followed 
their  last  horseman. 

“ Halt!  halt!”  was  passed  from  squadron  to  squadron,  and  the 
same  instant  the  sharp  ring  of  pistol  shots  and  the  clash  of 
steel  from  the  valley  told  us  the  battle  had  begun.  We  could 
hear  the  guerrilla  war-cry  mingle  with  the  French  shout,  while 
the  thickening  crash  of  fire-arms  implied  a sharper  confiict.  Our 
fellows  were  already  manifesting  some  impatience  to  press  on, 
when  a Spanish  horseman  appeared  above  the  ridge — another 
followed,  and  another — and  then  pell-mell,  broken  and  disor- 
dered, they  fell  back  before  the  pursuing  cavalry  in  fiying 
masses;  while  the  French,  charging  them  hotly  home,  utterly 
routed  and  repulsed  them. 

The  leading  squadrons  of  the  French  now  fell  back  upon  their 
support;  the  column  of  attack  thickened,  and  a thundering  noise 
between  their  masses  announced  their  brigade  of  light  guns  as 
they  galloped  to  the  front.  It  was  then,  for  the  first  time,  that 
I felt  dispirited.  Far  as  my  eye  could  stretch  the  dense  mass  of 
sabers  extended,  defiling  from  the  distant  hills,  and  winding  its 
slow  length  across  the  plain.  I turned  to  look  at  our  line,  scarce 
one  thousand  strong,  and  could  not  help  feeling  that  our  hour 
was  come;  the  feeling  fiashed  vividly  acrosfj  my  mind,  but  the 
next  instant  I felt  my  cheek  redden  with  shame  as  I gazed  upon 
the  sparkling  eyes  and  bold  looks  around  me— the  lips  com- 

Eressed,  the  hands  knitted  to  their  sabers;  all  were  motionless, 
ut  burning  to  advance. 

The  French  had  halted  on  the  brow  of  the  hm  to  form,  when 
Merivale  came  cantering  up  to  us. 

“ Fourteenth,  are  ye  ready  ? Are  ye  ready,  lads  ?” 

“ Heady,  sir!  ready!”  re-echoed  along  the  line. 

Then  push  them  home  and  charge!  Charge!’^  cried  he,  raising 
his  voice  to  a shout  at  the  last  word. 

Heavens!  what  a crash  was  there!  Our  horses,  in  top  condi- 
tion, no  sooner  felt  the  spur  than  they  bounded  madly  onward. 
The  pace — for  the  distance  did  not  exceed  four  hundred  yards — 
wa<l  like  racing.  To  resist  tlie  impetus  of  our  approach  was  im- 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


107 


poseible;  and,  without  a shot  fired,  scarcely  a saber-cut  ex- 
changed, we  actually  rode  down  their  advanced  squadrons — 
hurling  them  headlong  upon  their  supporting  divisions,  and  roll- 
ing men  and  horses  beneath  us  on  every  side.  The  French  fell 
back  on  their  artillery;  but,  before  they  could  succeed  in  open- 
ing their  fire  upon  us,  we  had  wheeled  and,  carrying  off  about 
seventy  prisoners,  galloped  back  to  our  position  with  the  loss  of 
but  two  men  in  the  whole  affair.  The  whole  thing  was  so  sud- 
den, so  bold,  and  so  successful,  that  I remember  well  as  we  rode 
back  a hearty  burst  of  laughter  was  ringing  through  the  squad- 
ron at  the  ludicrous  display  of  horsemanship  the  French  pre- 
sented as  they  tumbled  headlong  down  the  hill;  and  I cannot 
help  treasuring  the  recollection,  for,  from  that  moment,  all 
thought  of  anything  short  of  victory  completely  quitted  my 
mind,  and  many  of  my  brother  officers  who  had  participated  in 
my  feelings  at  the  commencement  of  the  day,  confessed  to  me 
afterward  that  it  was  then  for  the  first  time  they  felt  assured  of 
beating  the  enemy. 

While  we  slowly  fell  back  to  our  position,  the  French  were 
seen  advancing  in  great  force  from  the  village  of  Almeida,  to 
the  attack  of  Poco  Velho;  they  came  on  at  a rapid  pace,  their 
artillery  upon  their  front  and  flank,  large  masses  of  cavalry  hov- 
ering around  them.  The  attack  upon  the  village  was  now 
opened  by  the  large  guns;  and,  amid  the  booming  of  the  artil- 
lery and  the  crashing  volley  of  small  fire-arms,  rose  the  shout  of 
the  assailants,  and  the  wild  cry  of  the  guerrilla  cavalry,  who  had 
formed  in  front  of  the  village.  The  French  advanced  firmly, 
driving  back  the  pickets,  and  actually  inundated  the  devoted 
village  with  a shower  of  grape;  the  blazing  fires  burst  from 
the  ignited  roofs;  and  the  black,  dense  smoke  rising  on  high 
seemed  to  rest  like  a pall  over  the  little  hamlet. 

The  conflict  was  now  a tremendous  one:  our  seventh  division 
held  the  village  with  the  bayonet,  but  the  French,  continuing 
to  pour  in  mass  upon  mass,  drove  them  back  with  loss,  and  at 
the  end  of  an  hour’s  hard  fighting,  took  possession  of  the, place. 

The  wood  upon  the  left  bank  was  now  seen  to  swarm  with 
light  infantry,  and  the  advancement  of  their  whole  left  proved 
that  they  meditated  to  ton  our  flank;  the  space  between  th® 
village  and  the  hill  of  Naval  d’Aver  became  now  fhe  central 
position;  and  here  the  guerrilla  force,  led  on  by  Julian  Sanches, 
seemed  to  await  the  French  with  confidence.  Soon,  however, 
the  cuirassiers  came  galloping  to  the  spot,  and,  almost  without 
exchanging  a saber  cut,  the  guen*illas  fell  back  and  retired  be- 
hind the  Turones.  This  movement  of  Julian  was  more  attribu- 
table to  anger  than  to  fear;  for  his  favorite  lieutenant,  being 
mistaken  for  a French  officer,  was  shot  by  a soldier  of  the 
guards  a few  minutes  before. 

Montbrun  pursued  the  guerrillas  with  some  squadrons  of  horse, 
but  they  turned  resolutely  upon  the  French,  and  ijot  till  over- 
whelmed by  numbers  did  they  show  any  disposition  to  retreat. 

The  French,  however,  now  threw  forward  their  whole  cavalry, 
and,  driving  back  the  English  horse,  succeeded  in  turning  the 
right  of  the  seventh  division.  The  battle  by  this’  time  was 


108 


CHARLES  aMALLET. 


general.  The  staff  oflSlcers  who  came  up  from  the  left,  informed 
us  that  Fuentes  d’Onoro  was  attacked  in  force,  Massena  himself 
leading  the  assault  in  person;  while  thus  for  seven  miles  the  fight 
was  maintained  hotly  at  intervals,  it  was  evident  that  upon  the 
maintenance  of  our  position  the  fortune  of  the  day  depended. 
Hitherto,  we  had  been  repulsed  from  the  village  and  the  wood; 
and  the  dark  masses  of  infantry  which  were  assembled  upon 
our  right,  seemed  to  threaten  the  hill  of  Naval  d’Aver  with  a sad 
catastrophe. 

Crawford  came  now  galloping  up  among  us,  his  eye  flashing 
fire,  and  his  uniform  splashed  and  covered  with  foam. 

Steady!  Sixteenth,  steady!  Don’t  blow  your  horses!  Have 
your  fellows  advanced,  Malcolm!”  said  he,  turning  to  an  officer 
who  stood  beside  him;  ay,  there  they  go,”  pointing  with  his 
finger  to  the  wood  where,  as  he  spoke,  the  short  ringing  of  the 
British  rifle  proclaimed  the  advance  of  that  brigade.  “Let  the 
cavalry  prepare  to  charge!  And  now,  Ramsey,  let  us  give  it  them 
home!” 

Scarcely  were  the  words  spoken,  when  the  squadrons  were 
formed,  and,  in  an  instant  after,  the  French  light  infantry  were 
seen  retreating  from  the  wood,  and  flying  in  disorderly  masses 
across  the  plain.  Our  squadrons  riding  down  among  them, 
actually  cut  them  to  atoms,  while  the  light  artillery,  unlimbering, 
threw  in  a deadly  discharge  of  grape-shot. 

“To  the  right.  Fourteenth,  to  the  right!”  cried  General 
Stewart.  Have  at  their  hussars!” 

Whirling  by  them,  we  advanced  at  a gallop,  and  dashed  to- 
ward the  enemy,  who,  not  less  resolutely  bent,  came  bodily  for- 
ward to  meet  us;  the  shock  was  terrific;  the  leading  squadrons 
on  both  sides  w^ent  down  almost  to  a man,  and,  all  order  being 
lost,  the  encounter  became  one  of  hand  to  hand. 

The  struggle  was  deadly,  neither  party  would  give  way;  and, 
while  fortune  now  inclined  hither  and  thither,  Sir  Charles  Stew- 
art singled  out  the  French  General  Lamotte,  and  carried  him  off 
his  prisoner.  Meanwhile  Montbrun’s  cavalry  and  the  cuirassiers 
came  riding  up,  and,  the  retreat  now  sounding  through  our  ranks, 
were  obliged  to  fall  back  upon  the  infantry.  The  French  pur- 
sued us  hotly;  and  so  rapid  was  their  movement  that,  before 
Ramsey’s  brigade  could  limber  up  and  away,  their  squadrons  had 
surrounded  him  and  captured  his  guns. 

“Where  is  Ramsey?”  cried  Crawford,  as  he  galloped  to  the 
head  of  our  division.  “Cut  off — cutoff!  Taken!  by  Heaven! 
There  he  goes!”  said  he,  pointing  with  his  finger  as  a dense 
cloud  of  mingled  smoke  and  dust  moved  darkly  across  the  plain. 
“ Form  into  column  once  more!” 

As  he  spoke  the  dense  mass  before  us  seemed  agitated  by 
some  mighty  commotion;  the  flashing  of  blades  and  the  rattling 
of  small  arms,  mingled  with  shouts  of  defiance,  burst  forth,  and 
the  ominous  cloud  lowering  more  darkly,  seemed  peopled  by 
those  in  deadly  strife.  An  English  cheer  pealed  high  above  ail 
other  sounds;  a second  followed;  the  mass  was  rent  asunder, 
and,  like  the  forged  lightning  from  a thunder-  cloud,  Ramsey  rode 
forth  at  the  head  of  bis  battery,  his  horses  bounding  madly 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


109 


while  the  guns  sprang  behind  them,  like  things  of  no  weight; 
the  gunners  leaped  to  their  places,  and  fighting  band  to  hand 
with  the  French  cavalry,  they  flew  across  the  plain. 

“ Nobly  done,  gallant  Ramsey!”  said  a voice  behind  me.  I 
turned  at  the  sound.  It  was  Lord  Wellington  who  spoke.  My 
eye  fixed  upon  his  stern  features,  I forgot  all  else,  when  he  sud- 
denly recalled  me  to  my  recollection  by  saying;  i 

“ Follow  y(»ur  brigade,  sir.  Charge!”  \ 

In  an  instant  I was  with  my  people,  who,  intervening  betwixt  ] 
Ramsey  and  his  pursuers,  repulsed  the  enemy  with  loss,  and 
carried  off  several  prison€»rs.  The  French,  however,  came  up 
in  greater  strength;  overwhelming  masses  of  cavalry  came 
sweeping  upon  us,  and  we  were  obliged  to  retire  behind  the 
light  division,  which  rapidly  formed  into  squares  to  resist  the 
cavalry.  The  seventh  division,  which  was  more  advanced,  were, 
however,  too  late  for  this  movement,  and  before  they  could  ef- 
fect their  formation  the  French  were  upon  them.  At  this  mo- 
ment they  owed  then  safety  to  the  Chasseurs  Britanniques,  who 
poured  in  a flanking  fire,  so  close,  and  with  so  deadly  aim,  that 
their  foes  recoiled,  beaten  and  bewildered. 

Meanwhile,  the  French  had  become  masters  of  Poco  Velho; 
the  formidable  masses  had  nt^arly  outflanked  us  on  the  right. 
The  battle  was  lost,  if  we  could  not  fall  back  upon  our 
original  position,  and  concentrate  our  forces  i:mon  the  Fuentes 
d’Onoro.  To  effect  this  was  a work  of  great  aifficulty,  but  no 
time  was  to  be  lost.  The  seventh  division  were  ordered  across 
the  Torones.  while  Crawford,  forming  the  light  division  into 
squares,  covered  their  retreat,  and,  supported  by  the  cavalry, 
sustained  the  whole  force  of  the  enemy’s  attack. 

Then  was  the  moment  to  witness  the  cool  and  steady  bravery 
of  British  infantry;  the  squares  dotted  across  the  enormous  plain 
seemed  as  nothing  amid  that  confused  and  flying  multitude, 
composed  of  commissariat,  baggage,  camp  followers,  peasants, 
and,  finally,  broken  pickets  and  videttes  arriving  from  the  wood. 

A cloud  of  cavalry  hovered  and  darkened  around  them;  the 
Polish  lancers  shook  their  long  spears,  impatient  of  delay,  and 
the  wild  huzzas  burst  momentarily  from  their  squadrons  as  they 
waited  for  the  word  to  attack.  But  the  British  stood  firm  and 
undaunted;  and,  although  the  enemy  rode  round  their  squares, 
Montbrun  himself  at  their  head,  they  never  dared  to  charge 
them.  Meanwhile,  the  Seventh  fell  back,  as  if  on  a parade,  and, 
crossing  the  river,  took  up  their  groimd  at  Frenada,  pivoting 
upon  the  first  division ; the  remainder  of  the  line  also  fell  back, 
and  assumed  a position  at  right  angles  with  their  former  one, 
the  cavalry  forming  in  front,  and  holding  the  French  in  check 
during  the  movement.  This  was  a splendid  maneuver,  and, 
when  made  in  face  of  an  over-numbering  enemy,  one  unmatched 
during  the  whole  war. 

At  sight  of  this  new  front  the  French  stopped  short,  and 
opened  a fire  from  their  heavy  guns.  The  British  batteries  re- 
plied with  vigor,  and  silenced  the  enemie’s  cannon.  The  cavalry 
drew  out  of  range  and  the  infantry  gradually  fell  back  to  their 
former  position.  While  this  was  going  on,  the  attack  upon 


110 


CHARLES  aMALLEY 


Fuentes  d’Onoro  was  continued  with  unabated  vigor.  The  thred 
British  regiments  in  the  lower  town  were  pierced  by  the  French 
tirailleurs,  who  poured  upon  them  in  overwhelming  numbers; 
the  Seventy-ninth  were  broken,  ten  companies  taken,  and  Cam- 
eron, their  Colonel,  mortally  wounded.  Thus  the  lower  village 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  wJiile  from  the  upper  town  the 
incessant  roll  of  musketry  proclaimed  the  obstinate  resistance  of 
the  British. 

At  this  period  our  reserves  were  called  up  from  the  right  in 
time  to  resist  the  additional  troops  which  Drouet  continued  to 
bring  on.  The  French,  reinforced  by  the  whole  sixth  corps, 
now  came  forward  at  a quick  step.  Dashing  through  the  ruined 
streets  of  the  lower  town,  they  crossed  the  rivulet,  fighting 
bravely,  and  charged  against  the  height.  Already  their  leading 
files  had  gained  the  crag  beside  the  chapel.  A French  colonel, 
holding  his  cap  upon  his  sword- point,  waved  on  his  men. 

The  grizzly  features  of  the  grenadiers  soon  appeared,  and  the 
dark  column,  half  climbing,  half  running,  were  seen  scaling  the 
height.  A rifle  bullet  sent  the  French  leader  tumbling  from  the 
precipice;  and  a cheer — mad  and  reckless  as  the  war-cry  of  an 
Indian — rent  the  sky,  as  the  Seventy-first  and  Seventy-ninth 
Highlanders  sprang  upon  the  enemy. 

Our  part  was  a short  one;  advancing  in  half  squadrons  we 
were  concealed  ^rom  the  observation  of  the  enemy  by  the  thick 
vineyards  which  skirted  the  lower  town;  waiting,  with  impa- 
tience, the  moment  when  our  gallant  infantry  should  succeed 
in  turning  the  tide  of  battle.  We  were  ordered  to  dismout,  and 
stood  with  our  bridles  on  our  arms  anxious  and  expectant.  The 
charge  of  the  French  column  was  made  close  to  where  we  were 
standing — the  inspiriting  cheers  of  the  oflicers,  the  loud  vivas  of 
the  men,  were  plainly  heard  by  us  as  they  rushed  to  the  assault; 
but  the  space  between  us  was  intersected  by  walls  and  brush- 
wood, which  totally  prevented  the  movements  of  cavalry. 

Fearlessly  their  dark  columns  moved  up  the  heights,  fixing 
the  bayonets  as  they  went.  No  tirailleurs  preceded  them,  but 
the  tall  shako  of  the  grenadier  of  the  guard  was  seen  in  the  first 
rank.  Long  before  the  end  of  the  column  had  passed  us  the 
leading  files  were  in  action.  A deafening  peal  of  musketry — so 
loud — so  dense — it  seemed  like  artillery,  burst  forth.  A volume 
of  black  smoke  rolled  heavily  down  from  the  heights  and  hid  all 
from  our  view,  except  when  the  vivid  lightning  of  the  platoon 
firing  rent  the  veil  asunder,  and  showed  us  the  troops  almost  in 
hand  to  hand  conflict. 

“It’s  Picton’s  division,  I’m  certain,” cried  Merivale,  “I  hear 
the  bagpipes  of  the  Highlanders.” 

“ You  are  right,  sir,”  said  Hampden,  the  “ Seventy-first  are  in 
the  same  brigade,  and  I know  their  bugles  well.  There  they  go 
again.” 

“ Fourteenth!  Fourteenth!”  cried  a voice  from  behind,  and  at 
the  same  moment  a staff  officer  without  his  hat,  and  his  horse 
bleeding  from  a recent  saber  cut,  came  up.  “You  must  move 
to  the  rear,  Colonel  Merivale;  the  French  have  gained  the 


CHARLES  an  ALLEY.  Ill 

heights.  Move  round  by  the  causeway — bring  up  your  squad- 
rons as  quickly  as  you  can  and  support  the  infantry.” 

In  a moment  we  were  in  our  saddles,  but  scarcely  was  the 
word  “to  fall  in  ” given,  when  a loud  cheer  rent  the  very  air; 
the  musketry  seemed  suddenly  to  cease,  and  the  mass  which 
seemed  to  struggle  up  the  heights  wavered,  broke,  and  turned. 

“ What  can  that  be  ?”  said  Merivale.  “ What  can  it  mean  ?” 

“I  can  tell  you,  sir,”  said  I proudly,  while  I felt  my  heart  as 
though  it  would  bound  from  my  bosom. 

“ And  what  is  it,  boy  ? speak!” 

“ There  it  goes  again  ? That  was  an  Irish  shout — the  Eighty- 
eigth  are  at  them!” 

“ By  Jove!  here  they  come,”  said  Hampden.  “ God  help  the 
Frenchmen  now!” 

The  words  were  not  well-spoken,  when  the  red  coats  of  2)ur 
gallant  fellows  were  seen  dashing  through  the  vineyard. 

“ The  steel,  boys— nothing  but  the  steel!”  shouted  a loud  voice 
from  the  crag  above  our  heads. 

I looked  up.  It  was  the  stern  Picton  himself  who  spoke. 

The  Eighty-eighth  now  led  the  pursuit,  and  sprang  from 
rock  to  rock  in  all  the  mad  impetuosity  of  battle;  and  like  some 
mighty  billow  rolling  before  the  gale,  the  French  went  down 
the  heights. 

“Gallant  Eighty-eighth!  Gloriously  done!”  cried  Picton,  as 
he  waved  his  hat. 

“ Ar’n’t  we  Connaught  robbers,  now?”  shouted  a rich  brogue 
as  its  owner,  breathless  and  bleeding,  pressed  forward  in  the 
charge. 

A hearty  burst  of  laughter  mingled  with  the  din  of  the  battle. 

“ Now  for  it,  boys!  Now  tor  our  work,”  said  Merivale,  draw- 
ing his  saber  as  he  spoke,  “ Forward,  and  charge!” 

We  waited  not  a second  bidding,  but  bursting  from  our  con- 
cealment, galloped  down  on  the  broken  column.  It  was  no 
regular  charge,  but  an  indiscriminate  rush.  Scarcely  offering 
resistance,  the  enemy  fell  beneath  our  sabers,  or  the  still  more 
deadly  bayonets  of  the  infantry,  who  were  inextricably  mingled 
up  in  the  conflict. 

The  chase  was  followed  up  for  above  half  a mile,  when  we 
fell  back,  fortunately,  in  good  time;  for  the  French  had  opened 
a heavy  fire  from  their  artillery,  and  regardless  of  their  own 
retreating  column,  poured  a shower  of  grape  among  our  squad- 
rons. As  we  retired,  the  straggling  files  of  the  Rangers  joined 
us — their  faces  and  accouterments  blackened  and  begrimed 
with  powder;  many  of  them,  themselves  wounded,  had  captured 
prisoners;  and  one  huge  fellow  of  the  grenadier  company  was 
seen  driving  before  him  a no  less  powerful  Frenchman,  and  to 
whom,  as  he  turned  from  time  to  time  reluctantly  and  scowled 
upon  his  jailer,  the  other  vociferated  some  Irish  imprecation, 
whose  harsh  intentions  were  made  most  palpably  evident  by  a 
flourish  of  a drawn  bayonet. 

“ Who  is  he?”  said  Mike;  “who  is  he,  ahagur?” 

“Sorrow  o’  me  knows,”  said  the  other,  “ but  it’s  the  chap  that 
ghot  Lieutenant  Mahoney,  and  I never  took  my  eye  off  him 


112 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


after;  and  if  the  lieutenant  is  not  dead,  sure  it’ll  be  a satisfac- 
tion to  him  that  I cotched  him.” 


The  lower  town  was  now  evacuated  by  the  French,  who  re- 
tired beyond  the  range  of  our  artillery;  the  upper  continued  in 
the  occupation  of  our  troops;  and  worn  out  and  exhausted,  sur- 
rounded by  dead  and  dying,  both  parties  abandoned  the  contest 
— and  the  battle  was  over. 

Both  sides  laid  claim  to  the  victory:  the  French,  because, 
having  taken  the  village  of  Poco  Velio,  they  had  pierced  the 
British  line,  and  compelled  then)  to  fall  back  and  assume  a new 
position;  the  British,  because  the  attack  upon  Fuentes  d’Onoro 
had  been  successfully  resisted,  and  the  blockade  of  the  Almeida 
— the  real  object  of  the  battle — maintained.  The  loss  to  each 
was  tremendous;  fifteen  hundred  men  and  ofiicers,  of  whom 
three  hundred  were  prisoners,  were  lost  by  the  allies,  and  a far 
greater  number  fell  among  the  forces  of  the  enemy. 

After  the  action,  a brigade  of  the  light  division  released  the 
troops  in  the  village,  and  the  armies  bivouacked  once  more  in 
sight  of  each  other. 


CHAPTER  XCI. 

A RENCONTRE. 

“ Lieutenant  O'Malley,  Fourteenth  Light  Dragoons,  is  ap 
pointed  an  extra  aid-de-camp  to  Major-General  Crawford, 
until  the  pleasure  of  his  royal  highness  the  Prince  Regent  is 
known.’'  Such  was  the  first  paragraph  of  a general  order,  dated 
Fuentes  d’Onoro,  the  day  after  the  battle,  which  met  me  as  I 
awoke  from  a sound  and  heavy  slumber,  the  result  of  thirteen 
hours  on  horseback. 

A staff  appointment  was  not  exactly  what  I coveted  at  the 
moment;  but  I knew  that  with  Crawford  my  duties  were  more 
likely  to  be  at  the  pickets  and  advanced  posts  of  the  army,  tlian 
in  the  mere  details  of  note- writing  or  dispatch  bearing;  besides 
that,  I felt  whenever  anything  of  importance  was  to  be  done, 
I should  always  obtain  his  permission  to  do  duty  with  my 
regiment. 

Taking  a hurried  breakfast,  therefore,  I mounted  my  horse, 
and  cantered  over  to  Villa  Formosa,  where  the  General’s  quarters 
were,  to  return  my  thanks  for  the  promotion,  and  take  the  nec- 
essary steps  for  assuming  my  new  functions. 

Although  the  sun  had  risen  about  two  hours,  the  fatigue  of  the 
previous  day  had  impressed  itself  upon  all  around.  The  cavalry, 
men  and  horses,  were  still  stretched  upon  the  sward,  sunk  in 
sleep;  the  videttes,  weary  and  tired,  seemed  anxiously  watching 
for  the  relief,  and  the  disordered  and  confused  appearance  of 
everything  bespoke  that  discipline  had  relaxed  its  stern  features, 
in  compassion  for  the  bold  exertions  of  the  preceding  day.  The 
ouly  contrast  to  this  general  air  of  exhaustion  and  weariness  on 
every  side,  was  a corps  of  sappers,  who  were  busily  employed 
upon  the  high-grounds  above  the  village.  Early  as  it  was,  they 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY, 


113 


seemed  to  have  been  at  work  some  hours— at  least  so  their  labors 
bespoke;  for  already  a rampart  of  considerable  extent  had  been 
thrown  up,  stockades  implanted,  and  a breastwork  was  in  a state 
of  active  preparation.  The  officer  of  the  party,  wrapped  up  in  a 
loose  cloak,  and  mounted  upon  a sharp-looking  hackney,  rode 
hither  and  thither,  as  the  occasion  warranted,  and  seemed,  as 
from  the  distance  I could  guess,  something  of  a tartar.  At  least 
I could  not  help  remarking  how,  at  his  approach,  the  several  in- 
ferior officers  seemed  suddenly  so  much  more  on  the  alert,  and 
the  men  worked  with  an  additional  vigor  and  activity.  I 
stopped  for  some  minutes  to  watch  him,  and  seeing  an  engineer 
captain  of  my  acquaintance  among  the  party,  couldn’t  resist 
calling  out: 

‘‘  I say,  Hachard,  your  friend  on  the  chestnut  mare  must 
have  had  an  easier  day  yesterday  than  some  of  us,  or  I’ll  be 
hanged  if  he’d  be  so  active  this  morning.”  Hachard  hung  his 
head  in  some  confusion,  and  did  not  reply;  and,  on  my  looking 
round,  whom  should  I see  before  me  but  the  identical  indi- 
vidual whom  I had  so  coolly  been  criticising,  and  who  to  my 
utter  horror  and  dismay  was  no  other  than  Lord  Wellington 
himself.  I did  not  wait  for  a second  peep:  helter-skelter 
through  water,  tl  tickets,  and  brambles,  away  I went,  clattering 
down  bhe  causeway  like  a madman.  If  a French  squadron  had 
been  behind  me,  I’d  have  had  a stouter  heart,  although  I did  not 
fear  pursuit.  I felt  his  eye  was  upon  me — his  sharp  and  pierc- 
ing glance,  that  shot  like  an  arrow  into  me;  and  his  firm  look 
stared  at  me  in  every  object  about  me. 

Onward  I pressed,  feeling  in  the  very  recklessness  of  my 
course  some  relief  to  my  sense  of  shame,  and  ardently  hoping  that 
some  accident — some  smashed  arm  or  broken  collar-bone — might 
befall  me,  and  rescue  me  from  any  notice  my  conduct  might 
other wke  call  for.  I never  drew  rein  till  I reached  the  Villa 
Formosa,  and  pulled  up  short  at  a small  cottage,  where  a 
double  sentry  apprised  me  of  the  General’s  quarters.  As  I 
came  up,  the  low  lattice  sprang  quickly  open,  and  a figure  half 
dressed,  and  more  than  half  asleep,  protruded  his  head: 

“Well!  what  has  happened?  Anything  wrong?”  said  he, 
whom  I now  recognized  to  be  General  Crawford. 

“ No;  nothing  wrong,  sir,”  stammered  I with  evident  con- 
fusion; “ I merely  came  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness  in  my 
behalf.” 

“ You  seemed  in  a devil  of  a hurry  to  do  it,  if  I’m  to  judge  by 
the  pace  you  came  at.  Come  in  and  take  your  breakfast  with 
us;  I shall  be  dressed  presently,  and  you  will  meet  some  of  your 
brother  aids-de-camp.” 

Having  given  my  horse  to  an  orderly,  T walked  into  a little 
room  whose  humble  accommodations  and  unpretending  appear- 
ance seemed  in  perfect  keeping  with  the  simple  and  unostenta- 
tious character  of  the  General.  The  preparations  for  a good  and 
substantial  breakfast  were  before  me;  and  an  English  newspaper 
of  a late  date  spread  its  most  shnple  pages  to  welcome  me.  I 
had  not  been  lon^  absorbed  in  my  reading,  when  the  door  ooe»- 


114  CHARLES  OMALLEY. 

ed,  and  the  General,  whose  toilet  was  not  yet  completed,  made 
hie  appearance. 

‘‘Egad,  O’Malley,  you  startled  me  this  morning.  I thought 
we  were  in  for  it  again.” 

I took  this  as  the  most  seasonable  opportunitjf  to  recount  my 
mishap  of  the  morning,  and  accordingly,  without  more  ado,  de- 
tailed the  unlucky  meeting  with  the  Command er-in-Chief. 
When  I came  to  the  end,  Crawford  threw  himself  into  a chair, 
and  laughed  till  the  very  tears  coursed  down  his  bronzed  feat- 
ures. 

“You  don’t  say  so,  boy?  You  don’t  really  tell  me  you  said 
that  ? By  Jove,  I had  rather  have  faced  a platoon  of  musketry 
than  have  stood  in  your  shoes!  You  did  not  wait  for  a reply,  I 
think?” 

“ No,  faith,  sir,  that  I did  not!” 

“ Do  you  suspect  he  knows  you  ?” 

“ I trust  not,  sir,  the  whole  thing  passed  so  rapidly.” 

“ Well,  it  s most  unlucky  in  more  ways  than  one!”  He  paus- 
ed for  a few  moments  as  he  said  this,  and  then  added:  “ Have  you 
seen  the  general  order  ?”  pushing  toward  me  a written  paper  as 
he  spoke.  It  ran  thus: 

“G.  O.  Adjutant- General’s  Office,  Villa  Formosa, 

6th  May,  1811. 

Memorandum. — Commanding  officers  are  requested  to  send 
in  to  the  Military  Secretary,  as  soon  as  possible,  the  names  of 
officers  they  may  wish  to  have  promoted  in  succession  to  those 
who  have  fallen  in  action.” 

“Now  look  at  this  list.  The  Honorable  Harvey  Howard, 

Grenadier  Guards,  to  be  First  Lieutenant,  vice . No,  not 

that:  Hem  y Beauchamp — George  Villiers.  Ay,  here  it  is!  Cap- 
tain Lyttleton,  Fourteenth  Light  Dragoons,  to  be  Major  in  the 
Third  Dragoon  Guards,  vice  Goodwin,  killed  in  action;  Lieuten- 
ant O’Malley  to  be  Captain,  vice  Lyttleton,  promoted.  You  see, 
boy,  I did  not  forget  jou;  you  were  to  have  the  vacant  troop  in 
your  own  regiment.  Now!  I almost  doubt  the  prudence  of 
bringing  your  name  under  Lord  Wellington’s  notice!  He  may 
have  recognized  you;  and,  if  he  did  so — why,  I rather  think — 
that  is,  I suspect — I mean  the  quieter  you  keep  the  better.” 

While  I poured  forth  my  gratitude  as  warmly  as  I was  able 
for  the  General’s  great  kindness  to  me,  I expressed  my  perfect 
concurrence  in  his  views. 

“Believe  me,  sir,”  said  I,  “I  should  rather  wait  any  number 
of  years  for  my  promotion  than  incur  the  risk  of  a reprimand; 
the  more  so  as  it  is  not  the  first  time  I have  blundered  with  his 
lordship.”  I here  narrated  my  former  meeting  with  Sir  Arthur, 
at  which  Crawford’s  mirth  again  burst  forth,  and  he  paced  the 
room,  holding  his  sides  in  an  ecstasy  of  merriment. 

“Come,  come,  lad,  we’ll  hope  for  the  best;  we’ll  give  you 
the  chance  that  he  has  not  seen  your  face,  and  send  the  list  for- 
ward as  it  is;  but  lier  come  our  fellows.” 

As  he  spoke  the  door  opened  and  three  of  his  staff  entered,  to 


CHARLES  aMALLEY.  116 

whom,  being  severally  introduced,  we  chatted  away  about  the 
news  of  the  morning  until  breakfast. 

“I  have  frequently  heard  of  you  from  my  friend  Ham- 
mersly,”  said  Captain  Fitzroy,  addressing  me;  “ you  were 
intimately  acquainted,  I believe 

“Oh,  yes!  Pray  where  is  he  now?  We  have  not  met  for 
a long  time.” 

“Poor  Fred’s  invalided;  that  saber  cut  upon  his  head  has 
turned  out  a sad  affair,  and  he’s  gone  back  to  England  on  a sick 
leave.  Old  Dashwood  took  him  back  with  him  as  a private 
secretary  or  something  of  that  sort.” 

“Ah!”  said  another,  “ Dashwood -has  daughters,  hasn’t  he? 
Not  a bad  notion  of  his,  for  Hammersly  will  be  a baronet  one 
of  these  days,  with  a rent  roll  of  some  eight  or  nine  thousand 
per  annum.” 

“ Sir  George  Dashwood,”  said  I,  “ has  but  one  daughter,  and 
I am  quite  sure  that  in  his  kindness  to  Hammersly,  no  intentions 
of  the  kind  you  mention  were  mixed  up.” 

“Well,  I don’t  know,”  said  the  third,  a pale,  sickly  youth, 
with  handsome  but  delicate  features.  “I  was  on  Dash  wood’s 
staff  until  a few  weeks  ago,  aod  certainly  I thought  there  was 
something  going  on  between  Fred  and  Miss  Lucy,  who,  be  it 
spoken,  is  a devilish  fine  girl,  though  rather  disposed  to  give 
herself  airs.” 

I felt  my  cheeks  and  my  temples  boiling  like  a furnace;  and 
my  hand  trembled  as  I lifted. my  coffee  to  my  lips:  and  I would 
have  given  my  expected  promotion  twice  over  to  have  had  any 
reasonable  ground  of  quarrel  with  the  speaker. 

“ Egad,  lads,”  said  Crawford,  “ that’s  the  very  best  thing  I 
know  about  a command.  As  a iDishop  is  always  sure  to  portion 
off  his  daughters  with  deaneries  and  rectories,  so  your  knowing 
old  general  always  marries  his  among  his  staff.” 

This  sally  was  met  with  the  ready  laughter  of  the  subordinates, 
with  which,  however  little  disposed,  I was  obliged  to  join. 

“ You  are  quite  right,  sir,”  rejoined  the  pale  youth;  “ and  Sir 
George  has  no  fortune  to  give  his  daughter.” 

“How  came  it,  Horace,  that  you  escaped?”  said  Fitzroy, 
with  a certain  air  of  affected  seriousness  in  his  voice  and  man- 
ner; “ I wonder  they  let  such  a prize  escape  them.” 

“ Well,  it  was  not  exactly  their  fault,  I do  confess.  Old  Dash- 
wood did  the  civil  toward  me;  and  la  belle  herself  was 

condescending  enough  to  be  less  cruel  than  to  the  rest  of  the 
staff.  Her  father  threw  us  a great  deal  together;  and,  in  fact, 
I believe — I fear — ^that  is — that  I don’t  behave  quite  well.” 

“ You  may  rest  perfectly  assured  of  it,  sir,”  said  I;  “ whatever 
your  previous  conduct  may  have  been,  you  have  completely  re- 
lieved your  mind  on  this  occasion,  and  behaved  most  ill.” 

Had  a shell  fallen  in  the  midst  of  us,  the  faces  around  me 
could  not  have  been  more  horror-struck,  than  when,  in  a cool, 
determined  tone,  I spoke  these  few  words.  Fitzroy  pushed  his 
chair  slightly  back  from  the  table,  and  fixed  his  eyes  full  upon 
me.  Crawford  grew  dark  and  purple  over  his  whole  face  and 
forehead;  and  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  us  without  speak- 


116 


CHARLES  CMALLEW 


ing;  while  the  Honorable  Horace  Delawar,  the  individual  ad- 
dressed, never  changed  ^ muscle  of  his  wan  and  sickly  features, 
but  lifting  his  eyes  slowly  from  his  muffin,  lisped'softly  out: 

“You  think  so  ? How  very  good !” 

“General  Crawford,”  said  I,  the  moment  I could  collect  my- 
self sufficiently  to  speak,  “ I am  deeply  grieved  that  I should 
have  so  far  forgotten  myself  as  to  disturb  the  harmony  of  your 
table,  but  when  I tell  you  that  Sir  George  Dash  wood  is  one  of 
my  warmest  friends  on  earth;  that  from  my  intimate  knowledge 
of  him, I am  certain  that  gentleman’s  statements  are  either  the 
mere  outpourings  of  folly,  or  worse ” 

“By  Jove,  O’Malley,  you  have  a very  singular  mode  of  ex- 
plaining away  the  matter.  Delawar,  sit  down  again.  Gentle- 
men, I have  only  one  w'ord  to  say  about  this  transaction:  I’ll 
have  no  squabbles  nor  broils  here;  from  this  room  to  the  guard- 
house is  a five  minutes’  walk;  promise  me,  upon  your  honors, 
this  altercation  ends  here,  or,  as  sure  as  my  name’s  Crawford, 
you  shall  be  placed  under  arrest,  and  the  man  who  refuses  to 
obey  me  shall  be  sent  back  to  England.” 

Before  I well  knew  in  what  way  to  proceed,  Mr.  Delawar  rose 
and  bowed  formally  to  the  General,  while  I,  imitating  his  ex- 
ample silently,  we  resumed  our  places;  and,  after  a pause  of  a 
few  moments,  the  current  of  conversation  was  resumed,  and 
other  topics  discussed,  but  with  such  awkwardness  and  con- 
straint, that  all  parties  felt  relieved  when  the  General  rose  from 
the  table. 

“1  say,  O’Malley,  have  you  forwarded  the  returns  to  the  Ad- 
jutant-General’s office  ?” 

“Yes,  sir;  I dispatched  them  this  morning  before  leaving  my 
quarters.” 

“I’m  glad  of  it;  the  irregularities  on  this  score  have  called 
forth  a heavy  reprimand  at  headquarters.” 

I was  also  glad  of  it,  and  it  chanced  that  by  mere  accident  I 
remembered  to  charge  Mike  with  the  papers,  which,  had  they 
not  been  lying  unsealed  upon  the  table  before  me,  would,  in  all 
likelihood,  have  escaped  my  attention.  The  post  started  to  Lis- 
bon that  same  morning,  to  take  advantage  of  which  I had  sat 
up  writing  for  half  the  night.  Little  was  I aware  at  the  moment 
what  a mass  of  trouble  and  annoyance  was  in  store  for  me  from 
the  circumstance. 


CHAPTER  XCn. 

ALMEIDA. 

On  the  morning  of  the  7th  we  perceived,  from  a movement  in 
the  French  camp,  that  the  wounded  were  being  sent  to  the  rear, 
and  shortly  afterward  the  main  body  of  their  arrny  commenced 
its  retreat.  They  moved  off  with  slow,  and,  as  it  were,  reluc- 
tant steps;  and  Bassieres,  who  commanded  the  Imperial  Guards, 
turned  his  eyes  more  than  once  to  that  position  which  all  the 
bravery  of  his  troops  was  unavailing  to  capture.  Although  our 
cavalry  lay  in  force  to  the  front  of  our  line,  no  attempt  was 
made  to  molest  the  retreating  French;  and  Massena,  having, 


CHARLES  aMALLET. 


117 


retired  beyond  the  Aguada,  left  a strong  force  to  watch  the 
ford,  while  the  remainder  of  the  army  fell  back  upon  Ciudad 
Rodrigo. 

During  this  time  we  had  succeeded  in  fortifying  our  position 
at  Fuentes  D’Onoro  so  strongly  as  to  resist  any  new  attack,  and 
Lord  Wellington  now  turned  his  whole  attention  to  the  block- 
ade of  Almeida,  which,  by  Massena’s  retreat,  was  abandoned  to 
its  fate. 

On  the  morning  of  the  10th  I accompanied  General  Craw- 
ford in  a reconnoissance  of  the  fortress,  which,  from  the  intelli- 
gence we  had  lately  received,  could  not  much  longer  hold  out 
against  our  blockade.^  The  fire  from  the  enemy’s  artillery  was, 
however,  hotly  maintained;  and,  as  night  fell,  some  squadrons 
of  the  Fourteenth,  who  were  picketed  near,  were  unable  to  light 
their  watch  fires,  being  within  reach  of  their  shot.  As  the  dark- 
ness increased,  so  did  the  cannonade,  and  the  bright  flashes 
from  the  walls  and  the  deep  booming  of  the  artillery  became 
incessant. 

A hundred  conjectures  were  afloat  to  account  for  the  circum- 
stance; some  asserting  that  what  we  heard  were  mere  signals  to 
Massena’s  army;  and  others,  that  Brennier  was  destroying  and 
mutilating  the  fortress  before  he  evacuated  it  to  the  allies. 

It  was  a little  past  midnight  when,  tired  from  the  fatigues  of 
the  day,  I had  fallen  asleep  beneath  a tree,  an  explosion  louder, 
than  any  which  preceded  it  burst  suddenly  forth,  and,  as  I 
awoke  and  looked  about  me,  I perceived  the  whole  heavens  illu- 
minated by  one  bright  glare,  while  the  crashing  noises  of  fall- 
ing stones  and  crumbling  masonry  told  me  that  a mine  had 
been  sprung;  the  moment  after  all  was  calm,  and  still,  and  mo- 
tionless; a thick  black  smoke,  increasing  the  somber  darkness  of 
the  night,  shut  out  every  star  from  view,  and  some  drops  of 
heavy  rain  began  to  fall. 

The  silence,  ten  times  more  appalling  than  the  din  which  had 
preceded  it,  weighed  heavily  upon  my  senses,  and  a dread  of 
some  unknown  danger  crept  over  me;  the  exhaustion,  however, 
was  greater  than  my  fear,  and  again  I sank  into  slumber. 

Scarcely  had  I been  half  an  hour  asleep  when  the  blast  of  a 
trumpet  again  woke  me,  and  I found,  amid  the  confusion  and 
excitement  about,  that  something  of  importance  had  occurred. 
Questions  were  eagerly  asked  on  all  sides,  but  no  one  could  ex- 
plain what  had  happened.  Toward  the  town  all  was  still  as 
death,  but  a dropping  irregular  fire  of  musketry  issued  from  the 
valley  beside  the  Aguada.  “What  can  this  mean?  what  can 
it  be?”  we  asked  of  each  other.  “ A sortie  from  the  garrison,” 
said  one;  “anight  attack  by  Massena’s  troops,”  cried  another; 
and,  while  thus  we  disputed  and  argued,  a horseman  was  heard 
coming  along  the  road  at  the  top  of  his  speed. 

“Where  are  the  cavalry  ?”  cried  a voice  I recognized  as  one  of 
my  brother  aids-de-camp.  “ Where  are  the  Fourteenth  ?” 

A cheer  from  our  party  answered  his  question,  and  the  next 
moment,  breathless  and  agitated,  he  rode  in  among  us. 

< * What  is  it  ? Are  we  attacked  ?” 


118  CHARLES  CMALLEY. 

^ “Would  to  Heaven  that  were  all.  But  come  along,  lads:  foB 
low  me.” 

“ What  can  it  be,  then?”  said  I again,  while  my  anxiety  knew 
no  bounds. 

“ Brennier  has  escaped ; burst  his  way  through  Pack’s  division, 
and  has  already  reached  Walde  Mula.” 

“ The  French  have  escaped!”  was  repeated  from  mouth  to 
mouth.  While  pressing  spurs  to  our  horses  we  broke  into  a 
gallop,  and  dashed  forward  in  the  direction  of  the  musketry. 
We  soon  came  up  with  the  Thirty-sixth  infantry,  who,  having 
thrown  away  their  knapsacks,  were  rapidly  pressing  the  pursuit. 
The  maledictions  which  burst  from  every  side  proving  how 
severely  the  misfortune  was  felt  by  all,  while  the  eager  advance 
of  the  men  bespoke  how  ardently  they  longed  to  repair  the 
mishap. 

Dark  as  was  the  night,  we  passed  them  in  a gallop,  when  sud- 
denly the  officer  who  commanded  the  leading  squadron  called 
out  to  halt. 

“ Take  care  there,  lads,”  cried  he.  “ I hear  the  infantry  be- 
fore us;  we  shall  be  down  upon  our  own  people.” 

The  words  were  hardly  spoken  when  a bright  flash  blazed 
out  before  us,  and  a smashing  volley  was  poured  into  the 
squadron. 

“The  French!  the  French,  by  Jove!”  said, Hampden.  “For- 
ward, boys,  charge  them!” 

Breaking  into  open  order,  to  avoid  our  wounded  comrades, 
several  of  whom  had  fallen  by  the  Are,  we  rode  down  among 
them.  In  a moment  their  order  was  broken,  their  ranks  pierced, 
and  fresh  squadrons  coming  up  at  the  instant,  they  were  sabered 
to  a man. 

After  this  the  French  pursued  their  march  in  silence,  and  even 
when  assembling  in  force,  we  rode  down  upon  their  squares, 
they  never  ^halted  nor  fired  a shot.  At  Barba  del  Puerco,  the 
ground  being  unfit  for  cavalry,  the  Thirty -sixth  took  our  place, 
and  pressed  them  hotly  home.  Several  of  the  French  were  kill- 
ed, and  above  three  hundred  taken  prisoners,  but  our  fellows 
following  up  the  pursuit  too  rashly  came  upon  an  advanced 
body  of  Massena’s  force,  drawn  up  to  await  and  cover  Bren nier’s 
/etreat;  the  result  was,  the  loss  of  above  thirty  men  in  killed  or 
wounded. 

Thus  were  the  great  efforts  of  the  three  preceding  days  ren- 
dered fruitless  and  nugatory.  To  maintain  this  blockade.  Lord 
Wellington,  with  an  inferior  force  and  a position  by  no  means 
strong,  had  ventured  to  give  the  enemy  battle,  and  now  by  the 
unskillfulness  of  some  and  the  negligence  of  others,  were  all  his 
combinations  thwarted,  and  the  French  General  enabled  to 
march  his  force  through  the  midst  of  the  blockading  columns 
almost  unmolested  and  uninjured. 

Lord  Wellington’s  indignation  was  great,  as  well  it  might  be; 
the  prize  for  which  he  had  contested  was  torn  from  his  grasp  at 
the  very  moment  he  had  won  it,  and  although  the  gallantry  of 
the  troops  in  the  pursuit  might,  under  other  circumstances,  have 
elicited  eulogium,  his  only  observation  on  the  matter  was  a half- 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


119 


sarcastic  allusion  to  the  inconclusive  effects  of  undisciplined 
bravery.  “ Notwithstanding,”  says  the  general  order  of  tne  day, 
‘‘  what  has  been  printed  in  gazettes  and  newspapers,  we  have 
never  seen  small  bodies  unsupported  successfully  opposed  to 
large,  nor  has  the  experience  of  any  officer  realized  the  stories 
which  all  have  read,  of  whole  armies  being  driven  by  a handful 
of  light  infantry  and  dragoons.” 


CHAPTER  XCIII. 

A NIGHT  IN  THE  AZARA.  ^ 

Massena  was  now  recalled,  andMarmont,  having  assumed  the 
command  of  the  French  army,  retired  toward  Salamanca,  while 
our  troops  went  into  cantonments  upon  the  Aguada.  A period 
of  inaction  succeeded  to  our  previous  life  of  bustle  and  excite- 
ment, and  the  whole  interest  of  the  campaign  was  now  centered 
in  Beresford’s  army  exposed  to  Soult  in  Estremadura. 

On  the  15fch,  Lord  Wellington  set  out  for  that  province,  having 
already  directed  a strong  force  to  march  upon  Badajos. 

“Well,  O’Malley,”  said  Crawford,  as  he  returned  from  bidding 
Lord  Wellington  good-bye;  “your  business  is  all  right;  the 
Commander-in-Chief  has  signed  my  recommendation,  and  you 
will  get  your  troop.” 

While  I continued  to  express  my  grateful  acknowledgments 
for  his  kindness,  the  General,  apparently  inattentive  to  all  I was 
saying,  paced  the  room  with  hurried  steps,  stopping  every  now 
and  then  to  glance  at  a large  map  of  Spain  which  covered  one 
wall  of  the  apartment,  while  he  muttered  to  himself  some  broken 
and  disjointed  sentences. 

“ Eight  leagues — too  weak  in  cavalry — with  the  left  upon 
Fuenta  Grenaldo — a strong  position.  O’Malley,  you’ll  take  a 
troop  of  dragoons  and  patrol  the  country  toward  Castro;  you’ll 
reconnoiter  the  position  the  sixth  corps  occupies,  but  avoid  any 
collision  with  the  enemy’s  pickets,  keeping  the  Azara  between 
you  and  them.  Take  rations  for  three  days.” 

“ When  shall  I set  out,  sir  ?” 

“ Now!”  was  the  reply. 

Knowing  with  what  pleasure  the  hardy  veteran  recognized 
anything  like  alacrity  and  dispatch,  I resolved  to  gratify  him, 
and,  before  half  an  hour  had  elapsed,  was  ready  with  my  troop 
to  receive  his  final  orders. 

“Well  done,  boy!”  said  he,  as  he  came  to  the  door  of  the  hut, 
“ you’ve  lost  no  time.  I don’t  believe  I have  any  further  in- 
structions to  give  you;  to  ascertain,  as  far  as  possible,  the  proba- 
ble movement  of  the  enemy  is  my  object,  that’s  all.”  As  he 
spoke  this,  he  waved  his  hand,  and  wishing  me  “good-bye,” 
walked  leisurely  back  into  the  house.  I saw  that  his  mind  was 
occupied  by  other  thoughts,  and,  although  I desired  to  obtain 
some  more  accurate  information  for  my  guidance,  knowing  his 
dislike  to  questions,  I merely  returned  his  salute,  and  set  forth 
upon  my  journey. 

The  morning  was  beautiful;  the  sun  had  risen  about  an  hour, 
and  the  earth,  refreshed  by  the  heavy  dew  of  the  night,  was 


130 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


breathing  forth  all  its  luxuriant  fragrance.  The  river,  which 
flowed  Reside  us,  was  clear  as  crystal,  showing  beneath  its  eddy- 
ing current  the  shining  pebbly  bed,  while  upon  the  surface  the 
water-lilies  floated,  or  sank,  as  the  motion  of  the  stream  in- 
clined. The  tall  cork  trees  spread  their  shadows  about  us,  and 
the  richly  plumed  birds  hopped  from  branch  to  branch  awaking 
the  echoes  with  their  notes. 

It  is  but  seldom  that  the  heart  of  man  is  thoroughly  attuned 
to  the  circumstances  of  the  scenery  around  him.  How  often  do 
we  need  a struggle  with  ourselves  to  enjoy  the  rich  and  beauti- 
ful land^ape  which  lies  smiling  in  its  freshness  before  us  I How 
frequently  do  the  blue  sky  and  the  calm  air  look  down  upon  the 
heart  darkened  and  shadowed  with  affliction!  and  how  often 
have  we  felt  the  discrepancy  between  the  lowering  look  of  winter 
and  the  glad  sunshine  of  our  own  hearts!  The  harmony  of  the 
world  without,  with  our  thoughts  within,  is  one  of  the  purest, 
as  it  is  one  of  the  greatest  sources  of  happiness.  Our  hopes  and 
our  ambitions  lose  their  selfish  character  when  feeling  that  fort- 
une smiles  upon  us  from  all  around,  and  the  flattery  which 
speaks  to  our  hearts  from  the  bright  stars  and  the  blue  sky,  is 
greater  in  its  mute  eloquence  than  all  the  tongue  of  man  can 
tell  us  of. 

This  feeling  did  I experience  in  all  its  fullness,  as  I ruminated 
upon  my  bettered  fortunes,  and  felt  within  myself  that  secret 
instinct  that  tells  of  happiness  to  come.  In  such  moods  of  mind 
my  thoughts  strayed  ever  homeward,  and  I could  not  help  con- 
fessing how  little  were  all  my  successes  in  my  eyes,  did  I not 
hope  for  the  day  when  I should  pour  forth  my  tale  of  war  and 
battle-field  to  the  ears  of  those  who  loved  me. 

I resolved  to  write  home  at  once  to  my  uncle.  I longed  to  tell 
him  each  incident  of  my  career,  and  my  heart  glowed  as  I 
thought  over  the  broken  and  disjointed  sentences  which  every 
cotter  around  would  whisper  of  my  fortunes,  far  prouder  as  they 
would  be  in  the  humble  deeds  of  one  they  knew,  than  in  the 
proudest  triumphs  of  a nation’s  glory. 

Indeed  Mike  himself  gave  the  current  to  my  thoughts. 
After  riding  beside  me  for  some  time  in  silence,  he  remarked  : 

“And  isn’t  it  Father  Rush  will  be  proud  when  he  sees  your 
honor’s  a Captain;  to  think  of  the  little  boy  that  he  used  to  take 
before  him  on  the  ould  gray  mare  for  a ride  down  the  avenue, 
to  think  of  him  being  a raal  Captain,  six  feet  two  without  boots, 
and  galloping  over  the  French  as  if  they  were  lurchers.  Peggy 
Manon,  that  nursed  you,  will  be  the  proud  woman  the  day  she 
hears  it;  and  there  won’t  be  a soldier  sober  in  his  quarters  that 
night  in  Portumna  barracks.  ’Pon  my  soul,  there’s  not  a thing 
with  a red  coat  on  it,  if  it  was  even  a scarecrow  to  frighten  the 
birds  from  the  barley,  that  won’t  be  treated  with  respect  when 
they  hear  the  news.” 

The  country  through  which  we  traveled  was  marked  at  every 
step  by  the  traces  of  a retreating  army;  the  fields  of  rich  corn 
lay  flattened  beneath  the  tramp  of  cavalry  or  the  wheels  of  the 
baggage- wagons;  the  roads,  cut  up  and  nearly  impassable,  were 
studded  here  and  there  with  marks  which  indicated  a bivouac; 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


421 


at  the  same  time  everything  around  bore  a very  different  ^apect 
from  what  we  had  observed  in  Portugal;  there,  the  vindictive 
cruelty  of  the  French  soldier  had  been  seen  in  full  sway.  The 
ruined  chateaux,  the  burned  villages,  the  desecrated  altars,  the 
murdered  peasantry — all  attested  the  revengeful  spirit  of  a 
beaten  and  baffled  enemy.  No  sooner,  however,  had  they 
crossed  the  frontiers  than,  as  if  by  magic,  their  character 
became  totally  changed.  Discipline  and  obedience  succeeded  to 
recklessness  and  pillage;  and,  instead  of  treating  the  natives 
with  inhumanity  and  cruelty,  in  all  their  intercourse  with  the 
Spaniards  the  French  behaved  with  moderation  and  even  kind- 
ness. Paying  for  everything,  obtaining  their  billets  peaceably 
and  quietly,  marching  with  order  and  regularity,  they  advanced 
into  the  heart  of  the  country,  showing,  by  the  most  irrefragable 
proof,  the  astonishing  evidences  of  a discipline  which,  by  a 
word,  could  convert  the  lawless  irregularities  of  a ruffian 
soldiery  into  the  orderly  habits  and  obedient  conduct  of  a highly 
organized  army. 

As  we  neared  the  Azara,  the  tracks  of  the  retiring  enemy  be 
came  gradually  less  perceptible,  and  the  country,  uninjured  by 
the  march,  extended  for  miles  around  us  in  all  the  richness  and 
abundance  of  a favored  climate.  The  tall  corn  waving  its  yel- 
low gold,  reflected  like  a sea  the  clouds  that  moved  slowly  above 
it.  The  wild  gentian  and  the  laurel  grew  thickly  around,  and 
the  cattle  stood  basking  in  the  clear  streams,  while  some  listless 
peasant  lounged  upon  the  bank  beside  them.  Strange  as  all 
these  evidences  of  peace  and  tranquillity  were  so  near  to  the  de- 
vastating track  of  the  mighty  army,  yet  I have  more  than  once 
witnessed  the  fact,  and  remarked  how  but  a short  distance  from 
the  line  of  our  hurried  march,  the  country  lay  untouched  and 
uninjured;  and  though  the  clank  of  arms,  and  the  dull  roll  of 
the  artillery,  may  have  struck  upon  the  ear  of  the  far-off  dwell- 
er in  his  native  valley,  he  listened  as  he  would  have  done  to 
the  passing  thunder  as  it  crashed  above  him.  and  when  the 
bright  sky  and  pure  air  succeeded  to  the  lowering  atmosphere 
and  the  darkening  storm,  he  looked  forth  upon  his  smiling  flelds 
and  happy  home,  w hile  he  muttered  to  his  heart  a prayer  of 
thanksgiving  that  the  scourge  was  passed. 

We  bivouacked  upon  the  bank  of  the  Azara,  a truly  Salvator 
Rosa  scene;  the  rocks,  towering  high  above  us,  were  Assured 
by  the  channel  of  many  a trickling  stream,  seeking  in  its  zigzag 
current  the  bright  river  below.  The  dark  pine  tree  and  the  oak 
mingled  their  foliage  with  the  graceful  cedar,  which  spread  its 
fanlike  branches  about  us.  Through  the  thick  shade  some  oc- 
casional glimpses  of  a starry  sky  could  yet  be  seen,  and  a faint 
yellow  streak  upon  the  silent  river  told  that  the  queen  of  night 
was  there. 

When  I had  eaten  my  frugal  supper,  I wandered  forth  alone 
upon  the  bank  of  the  stream,  now  standing  to  watch  its  bold 
sweep  as  it  traversed  the  lonely  valley  before  me,  now  turning 
to  catch  a passing  glance  at  our  red  watch-fires  and  the  hardy 
features  which  sat  around.  The  hoarse  and  careless  laugh,  the 
deep-toned  voice  of  some  old  cam^paigner  holding  forth  his  tale 


123 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


of  flood  and  fleld,  were  the  only  sounds  I heard;  and  gradually 
I strolled  beyond  the  reach  of  even  these.  The  path  beside  the 
river,  which  seemed  scarped  from  the  rock,  was  barely  sufficient 
for  the  i)assage  of  one  man — a rude  balustrade  of  wood  being 
the  only  defense  against  the  precipice  which,  from  a height  of 
full  thirty  feet,  looked  down  upon  the  stream.  Here  and  there 
some  broad  gleam  of  moonlight  would  fall  upon  the  opposite 
bank,  which,  unlike  the  one  I occupied,  stretched  out  into  rich 
meadow  and  pasturage,  broken  by  occasional  clumps  of  lilex  and 
beech.  River  scenery  had  been  ever  a passion  with  me.  I can 
glory  in  the  bold  and  broken  outline  of  a mighty  mountain;  I 
can  gaze  with  delighted  eyes  upon  the  boundless  sea,  and  know 
not  whether  to  like  it  more  in  all  the  mighty  outpouring  of  its 
wrath  when  the  white  waves  lift  their  heads  to  heaven,  and 
break  themselves  in  foam  upon  the  rocky  beach,  or  in  the  calm 
beauty  of  its  broad  and  mirrored  surface,  in  which  the  bright 
world  of  sun  and  sky  are  seen  full  many  a fathom  deep.  But 
far  before  these,  I love  the  happy  and  tranquil  beauty  of  some 
bright  river,  tracing  its  winding  current  through  valley  and 
through  plain,  now  spreading  into  some  calm  and  waveless  lake, 
now  narrowing  to  an  eddying  stream,  with  mossy  rocks  and 
waving  trees  darkening  over  it.  There’s  not  a hut,  however 
lowly,  where  the  net  of  the  fisherman  is  stretched  upon  the 
sward  around,  around  whose  hearth  I do  not  picture  before  me, 
the  faces  of  happy  toil  and  humble  contentment,  while,  from 
the  ruined  tower  upon  the  crag,  methinks  I hear  the  ancient 
soundsjof  wassail  and  of  welcome,  and,  though  the  keep  is  fissured 
and  the  curtain  fallen  and,  though  for  banners  there  “waves 
some  tall  wall  flower,”  I can  people  its  crumbling  walls  with 
images  of  the  past;  and  the  merry  laugh  of  the  warder,  and  the 
clanking  tread  of  the  mailed  warrior,  are  as  palpably  before  me 
as  the  tangled  lichen  that  now  trails  from  its  battlements. 

As  I wandered  on,  I reached  a little  rustic  stair  which  led 
downward  from  the  path  to  the  river  side;  and,  on  examining 
further,  perceived  that  in  this  place  the  stream  was  fordable; 
a huge  flat  rock  filling  up  a great  part  of  the  river’s  bed  occu- 
pied the  middle,  on  either  side  of  which  the  current  ran  with  in- 
creased force. 

Bent  upon  exploring,  I descended  the  cliff  and  was  preparing 
to  cross,  when  my  attention  was  attracted  by  the  twinkle  of  a 
fire  at  some  distance  from  me  on  the  opposite  side;  the  flames 
rose  and  fell  in  fitful  flashes,  as  though  some  hand  were  minis- 
tering to  it  at  the  moment;  as  it  was  impossible,  from  the  si- 
lence on  every  side,  that  it  could  proceed  from  a bivouac  of  the 
enemy,  I resolved  on  approaching  it  and  examining  it  for  my- 
self. I knew  that  the  shepherds  in  remote  districts  were  accus- 
tomed thus  to  pass  the  summer  nights  with  no  other  covering  save 
the  blue  vault  above  them.  It  was  not  impossible,  too,  that  it 
might  prove  a guerrilla  party,  who,  frequently,  in  small  numbers, 
hang  upon  the  rear  of  a retreating  army.  Thus  conjecturing,  I 
crossed  the  stream,  and,  quickening  my  pace,  walked  forward 
in  the  direction  of  the  blaze.  For  a moment  a projecting  rock 
obstructed  my  progress,  and,  while  I was  devising  some  means 


CHARLES  a M ALLEY. 


123 


of  proceeding  further,  the  sound  of  voices  near  me  arrested  my 
attention.  I listened,  and  what  was  my  astonishment  to  hear 
that  they  spoke  in  French.  I now  crept  cautiously  to  the  verge 
of  the  rock  and  looked  over;  the  moon  was  streaming  in  its  full 
brilliancy  upon  a little  shelving  strand  beside  the  stream;  and 
here  I now  beheld  the  figure  of  a French  officer.  He  was  habit- 
ed in  the  undress  uniform  of  a chasseur'  au  cheval,  but  wore  no 
arms;  indeed,  his  occupation  at  the  moment  was  anything  but 
a warlike  one,  he  being  leisurely  employed  in  collecting  some 
flasks  of  champagne  which  apparently  had  been  left  to  cool  with- 
in the  stream. 

“ Eh  Men,  AlphonseP'  said  a voice  in  the  direction  of  the  fire, 
‘‘  what  are  you  delaying  for?”  “ I’m  coming.  I’m  coming.” 
said  the  other;  “ but,  par  Dieu!  I can  only  find  five  of  our  bot' 
ties;  one  seems  to  have  been  carried  away  by  the  stream.”  “No 
matter,”  replied  the  other,  “ we  are  but  three  of  us,  and  one  is, 
or  should  be,  on  the  sick  list.” 

The  only  answer  to  this  was  the  muttered  chorus  of  a French 
drinking  song,  interrupted  at  intervals  by  an  imprecation  on  the 
missing  flask.  It  chanced,  at  this  moment,  that  a slight  clinking 
noise  attracted  me,  and,  on  looking  down,  I perceived  at  the  foot 
of  the  rock  the  prize  he  sought  for.  It  had  been,  as  he  con- 
ceived, carried  away  by  an  eddy  of  the  stream,  and  was  borne, 
as  a true  prisoner  of  war,  within  my  grasp.  I avow  that  from 
this  moment  my  interest  in  the  scene  became  considerably  height- 
ened; such  a waif  as  a bottle  of  champagne  was  not  to  be  de- 
spised in  circumstances  like  mine;  and  I watched  with  anxious 
eyes  every  gesture  of  the  impatient  Frenchman,  and  alternately 
vibrated  between  hope  and  fear,  as  he  neared  or  receded  from 
the  coveted  flask. 

“Let  it  go  to  the  devil,”  shouted  his  companion  once  more. 
“ Jacques  has  lost  all  patience  with  you.” 

“Be  it  so,  then,” said  the  other,  as  he  prepared  to  take  up  his 
burden.  At  this  instant  I made  a slight  effort  so  to  change  my 
position  as  to  obtain  a view  of  the  rest  of  the  party.  The  branch 
by  which  I supported  myself,  however,  gave  way  beneath  my 
grasp  with  a loud  crash.  I lost  my  footing,  and  slipping  down- 
ward from  the  rock,  came  plump  into  the  stream  below.  The 
noise,  the  splash,  and  more  than  all,  the  sudden  appearance  of  a 
' man  beside  him,  astounded  the  Frehchman,  who  almost  let  fall 
his  pannier,  and  thus  we  stood  confronting  each  other  for  at  least 
a couple  of  minutes  in  silence.  A hearty  burst  of  laughter  from 
both  parties  terminated  this  awkward  moment,  while  the 
Frenchman,  with  the  readiness  of  his  country,  was  the  first  to 
open  the  negotiation. 

“ Sacre  Dieu^  said  he,  “ what  can  you  be  doing  here?  You’re 
English,  without  a doubt.” 

“ Even  so,”  said  I;  “ but  that  is  the  very  question  I was  about 
to  ask  you;  what  are  you  doing  here?” 

“ Eh  MenP'  replied  the  other,  gayly,  “ you  shall  be  answered 
in  all  frankness.  Our  Captain  was  wounded  in  the  action  of  the 
eighth,  and  we  heard  had  been  carried  up  the  country  by  some 
peasants.  As  the  army  fell  back,  we  obtained  permission  to  go 


m 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


in  search  of  him;  for  two  days  all  was  fruitless;  the  peasantry 
fled  at  our  approach;  and,  although  we  captured  some  of  our 
stolen  property,  among  other  things  the  contents  of  this  basket, 
yet  we  never  came  upon  the  track  of  our  comrade  till  this  even- 
ing. A good-hearted  shepherd  had  taken  him  to  his  hut  and 
treated  him  with  every  kindness,  but  no  sooner  did  he  hear  the 
gallop  of  our  horses  and  the  clank  of  our  equipments  than,  fear- 
ing himself  to  be  made  a prisoner,  he  fled  up  the  mountains, 
leaving  our  friend  behind  him ; Voila  notre  historier.  Here  we 
are,  three  in  all,  one  of  us  with  a deep  saber  cut  in  his  shoulder. 
If  you  are  the  stronger  party,  we  are,  I suppose,  your  prisoners; 
if  not ” 

What  was  to  have  followed  I know  not,  for  at  this  moment 
his  companion,  who  had  finally  lost  all  patience,  came  suddenly 
to  the  spot. 

“ A prisoner,”' cried  he,  placing  a heavy  hand  upon  my  shoul- 
der, while  with  the  other  he  held  his  drawn  sword  pointed 
toward  my  breast. 

To  draw  a pistol  from  my  bosom,  was  the  work  of  a second; 
and  while  gently  turning  the  point  of  his  weapon  away,  I coolly 
said: 

‘‘Not  so  fast,  my  friend,  not  so  fast!  The  game  is  in  my 
hands,  not  yours.  I have  only  to  pull  this  trigger  and  my  dra- 
goons are  upon  you;  whatever  fate  befall  me,  yours  is  certain.” 

A half  scornful  laugh  betrayed  the  incredulity  of  him  I ad- 
dressed, while  the  other,  apparently  anxious  to  relieve  the  awk- 
wardness of  the  moment,  suddenly  broke  in  with: 

“ He  is  right,  Auguste,  and  you  are  wrong;  we  are  in  his 
power;  that  is,”  added  he,  smiling,  “ if  he  believe;^  there  is  any 
triumph  in  capturing  pauvres  diables  as  ourselves.” 

The  features  of  him  he  addressed  suddenly  lost  their  scornful 
expression,  and  sheathing  his  sword  with  an  air  of  almost  melo- 
dramatic solemnity,  he  gravely  pulled  up  his  mustaches,  and 
after  a pause  of  a few  seconds,  solemnly  ejaculated  a maledic- 
tion upon  his  fortune. 

“ G^est  toujours  la  meme  chose, said  he,  with  a bitterness  that 
only  a Frenchman  can  convey  when  cursing  his  destiny. 

Soyez  bon  enfant,  and  see  what  will  come  of  it.  Only  be 
good-natured,  only  be  kind,  and  if  you  haven’t  bad  luck  at  the 
end  of  it,  it’s  only  because  fortune  has  a heavier  stroke  in  re- 
serve for  you  hereafter.” 

I could  not  help  smiling  at  the  Frenchman’s  philosophy, 
which,  assuming  as  a good  augury,  he  gay ly  said:  “ So,  then, 
you’ll  not  make  us  prisoners.  Isn’t  it  so  ?” 

“ Prisoners,”  said  the  other;  “ nothing  of  the  kind.  Come  and 
sup  with  us;  I’ll  venture  to  say  our  larder  is  as  well  stocked  as 
your  own;  in  any  case,  an  omelet,  a cold  chicken,  and  a glass 
of  champagne  are  not  bad  things  in  our  circumstance.” 

I could  not  help  laughing  outright  at  the  strangeness  of  the 
proposal.  “I  fear  I must  decline,”  said  I;  “you  seem  to  for- 
get I am  placed  here  to  watch,  not  to  join  you.” 

**  Ala  oonheur,^^  cried  the  younger  of  the  two;  “do  both.  Come 


CHARLES  CMALLET. 


125 


along;  soyez  bon  comrade;  you  are  always  near  your  own  peo- 
ple, so  don’t  refuse  us.” 

In  proportion  as  I declined,  they  both  became  more  pressing 
in  their  entreaties,  and  at  last  I began  to  dread  lest  my  refusal 
might  seem  to  proceed  from  some  fear  as  to  the  good  faith  of 
the  invitation,  and  I never  felt  so  awkwardly  placed  as  when 
one  plumply  pressed  me  by  saying: 

“ Mais  pourquoi  pas  f mon  cher,^^ 

I stammered  out  something  about  duty  and  discipline,  when 
they  both  interrupted  me  by  a loug  burst  of  laughter. 

“ Come,  come  !”  said  they;  “in  an  hour — in  half  an  hour,  if 
you  will — you  shall  be  back  with  your  own  people.  We’ve  had 
plenty  of  fighting  latterly,  and  we  are  likely  to  have  enough  in 
future;  we  know  something  of  each  other  by  this  time  in  the 
field;  let  us  see  how  we  can  get  on  in  the  bi venae  !” 

Resolving  not  to  be  outdone  in  generosity,  I replied  at  once: 
“ Here  gOQS,  then  I” 

Five  minutes  afterward  I found  myself  seated  at  their 
bivouac  fire.  The  captain,  who  was  the  oldest  of  the  party,  was 
a fine  soldier-like  fellow  of  some  forty  years  old;  he  had  served 
in  the  Imperial  Guard  through  all  the  campaigns  of  Italy  and 
Austria,  and  abounded  in  anecdotes  of  the  French  army.  From 
him  I learned  many  of  those  characteristic  traits  which  so 
eminently  distinguish  the  imperial  troops,  and  saw  how  com- 
pletely their  bravest  and  boldest  feats  of  arms  depended  upon 
the  personal  valor  of  him  who  led  them  on.  From  the  daring 
enterprise  of  Napoleon  at  Lodi  to  the  conduct  of  the  lowest  cor- 
poral in  the  grande  armee,  the  picture  presents  nothing  but  a 
series  of  brilliant  and  splendid  chivalry,  while  at  the  same  time, 
the  warlike  character  of  the  nation  is  displayed  by  that  instinctive 
appreciation  of  courage  and  daring  which  teaches  them  to  fol- 
low their  officers  to  the  very  cannon’s  mouth, 

“It  was  at  Elchingen,”  said  the  Captain,  “you  should  have 
seen  them.  The  regiment  in  which  I was  a lieutenant  was  or- 
dered to  form  close  column;  and,  charging  through  a narrow 
ravine  to  carry  a brigade  of  guns,  which,  by  a fianking  fire,  were 
devastating  our  troops.  Before  we  could  reach  the  causeway, 
we  were  olDJiged  to  pass  an  open  plain  in  which  the  ground 
dipped  for  about  a hundred  yards;  the  column  moved  on,  and 
though  it  descended  one  hill,  not  a man  ever  mounted  the  oppo- 
site one.  A very  avalanche  of  ball  swept  the  entire  valley;  and 
yet,  amid  the  thunder  and  the  smoke,  the  red  glare  of  the  artil- 
lery, and  the  carnage  around  them,  our  grenadiers  marched  firmly 
up.  At  last,  Marshal  Ney  sent  an  aid-de-camp  with  orders  to 
the  troops  to  lay  fiat  down,  and  in  this  position  the  artillery 
played  over  us  for  above  half  an  hour.  The  Austrians  gradually 
slackened  and  finally  discontinued  their  fire;  this  was  a moment 
to  resume  the  attack.  I crept  cautiously  to  my  knees  and  looked 
about.  One  word  brought  my  men  around  me;  but  I found  to 
my  horror  that  of  a battalion  who  came  into  action  fourteen 
hundred  strong,  not  five  hundred  remained;  and  that  I myself, 
a mere  lieutenant,  was  now  the  senior  officer  of  the  regiment. 
Our  gallant  colonel  lay  dead  beside  my  feet.  At  this  instant  a 


136 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


thought  struck  me.  I remembered  a habit  he  possessed,  in  mo- 
ments of  difficulty  and  danger,  of  placing  in  bis  shako  a small 
red  plume  which  he  commonly  carried  in  his  belt.  I searched 
for  it,  and  found  it.  As  I held  it  aloft  a maddening  cheer  burst 
around  me,  while  from  out  of  the  line  each  officer  sprang  madly 
forward  and  rushed  to  the  head  of  the  column.  It  was  no  longer 
a march;  with  a loud  cry  of  vengeance  the  mass  rushed  for- 
ward, the  men  trying  to  outstrip  their  officers,  and  come  first 
in  contact  with  the  foe.  Like  tigers  on  the  spring,  they  fell  upon 
the  enemy,  who,  crushed,  overwhelmed,  and  massacred,  lay  in 
slaughtered  heaps  around  the  cannon;  the  cavalry  of  the  guard 
came  thundering  on  behind  us,  a whole  division  followed,  and 
3,500  prisoners  and  fourteen  pieces  of  artillery  were  captured. 

I sat  upon  the  carriage  of  a gun,  my  face  begrimed  with 
powder,  and  my  uniform  blackened  and  bloodstained;  the  whole 
thing  appeared  like  some  shocking  dream.  I felt  a hand  upon 
my  shoulder  while  a rough  voice  called  in  my  ear:  ‘ Captaine  du 
soixante  neuvieme  ! tuesmonfrere.^ 

‘‘  It  was  Ney  who  spoke.  This,”  added  the  brave  Captain,  his 
eyes  filling  as  he  said  the  words,  “ and  this  is  the  saber  he  gave 
me.” 

I know  not  why  I have  narrated  this  anecdote;  it  has  little 
in  itself,  but  somehow  to  me  it  brings  back  in  all  its  fullness  the 
recollection  of  that  night. 

There  was  something  so  strongly  characteristic  of  the  old  Na- 
poleonist  in  the  tone  of  his  narrative  that  I listened  throughout 
with  breathless  attention.  I began  to  feel,  too,  for  the  first  time, 
what  a powerful  arm  in  war  the  Emperor  had  created  by  foster- 
ing the  spirit  of  individual  enterprise.  The  field  thus  opened  to 
fame  and  distinction  left  no  bounds  to  the  ambition  of  any.  The 
humble  conscript,  as  he  tore  himself  away  from  the  embraces  of 
his  mother,  wiped  his  tearful  eyes  to  see  before  him  in  the  dis- 
tance the  baton  of  a marshal.  The  bold  soldier  who  stormed  a 
battery  felt  his  heart  beat  more  proudly  and  more  securely  be- 
neath the  cordon  of  the  legion  than  behind  a cuirass  of  steel,  and 
to  a people  in  whom  the  sense  of  duty  alone  would  seem  cold, 
barren  and  inglorious,  he  had  substituted  the  highly  wrought 
chivalrous  enthusiasm,  and  by  t\\e prestige  of  his  own  name,  the 
proud  memory  of  his  battles,  and  the  glory  of  those  mighty 
tournaments  at  which  all  Europe  were  the  spectators,  he  had  con- 
verted the  nation  into  an  army. 

By  a silent  and  instinctive  compact,  we  appeared  to  avoid 
those  topics  of  the  campaign  in  which  the  honor  of  our  respect- 
ive arms  was  interested;  and  once,  when  by  mere  accident,  the 
youngest  of  the  party  adverted  to  Fuentes  d’Onoro,  the  old  Cap- 
tain adroitly  turned  the  current  of  the  conversation  by  saying, 
“ Come  Alphonse,  let’s  have  a song.” 

‘‘  Yes,”  said  the  other.  “ Le  passe  charge.^^ 

‘‘  No,  no,”  said  the  Captain.  If  I am  to  have  a choice,  let  it 
be  that  little  Breton  song  you  gave  us  on  the  Danube.” 

“ So  be  it  then,”  said  Alphonse.  “ Here  goes.” 

I have  endeavored  to  convey,  by  a translation,  the  words  he 
sang;  but  I feel  conscious  how  totally  their  feeling  and  simpliC" 


OHAnzES  auALLEY.  m 

ity  are  lost  when  deprived  of  their  own  'patois,  and  the  wild  but 
touching  melody  that  accompanied  them; 

“ When  the  battle  is  o’er,  and  the  sounds  of  fight  : 

Have  closed  with  the  closing  da}^  • 

How  happy,  around  the  watch-fire’s  light,  i 

To  chat  the  long  hours  away.  j 

To  chat  the  long  hours  away,  my  boy,  1 

And  talk  of  the  days  to  come;  ! 

Or  a better  still,  and  a purer  joy,  ^ 

To  think  of  our  far-off  home.  * 

t 

How  many  a cheek  will  then  grow  pale,  ^ 

That  never  felt  a tear! 

And  many  a stalwart  heart  will  quail. 

That  never  quailed  in  fear! 

And  the  breast  that,  like  some  mighty  rock 
Amid  the  foaming  sea. 

Bore  high  against  the  battle’s  shock. 

Now  heaves  like  infancy. 

“ And  those  who  knew  each  other  not. 

Their  hands  together  steal; 

Each  thinks  of  some  long-hallowed  spot. 

And  all  like  brothers  feel. 

Such  holy  thoughts  to  all  are  given; 

The  lowliest  has  his  part; 

The  love  of  home,  like  love  of  Heaven, 

Is  woven  in  our  heart.” 

There  was  a pause,  as  he  concluded,  each  sunk  in  his  own  re- 
flections. 

How  long  we  should  have  thus  remained  I know  not;  but  we 
were  speedily  aroused  by  the  tramp  of  horses  near  us.  We 
listened,  and  could  plainly  detect  in  their  rude  voices  and 
coarse  laughter  the  approach  of  a body  of  guerrillas.  We  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  in  silence  and  fear.  Nothing  could  be 
more  unfortunate  should  we  be  discovered.  Upon  this  point 
we  were  left  little  time  to  deliberate;  for,  with  a loud  cheer, 
four  Spanish  horsemen  galloped  up  to  the  spot,  their  carbines 
in  the  rest.  The  Frenchmen  sprang  to  their  feet  and  seized 
their  sabers,  bent  on  making  a resolute  resistance.  As  for  me, 
my  determination  was  at  once  taken.  Remaining  quietly  seated 
upon  the  grass,  I stirred  not  for  a moment,  but  addressing  him 
who  appeart3d  to  be  the  chief  of  the  guerrillas,  said  in  Spanish: 

“ These  are  my  prisoners;  lama  British  oflicer  of  dragoons, 
and  my  party  is  yonder.” 

This  evidently  unexpected  declaration  seemed  to  surprise 
them,  and  they  conferred  for  a few  moments  together.  Mean- 
while, they  were  joined  by  two  others,  in  one  of  whom  we 
could  recognize,  by  his  costume,  the  real  leader  of  the  party. 

“I  am  Captain  in  the  Light  Dragoons,” said  I,  repeating  my 
declaration. 

“ Morte  de  Diosr  replied  he;  “ it  is  false;  you  are  a spy^’ 

The  word  was  repeated  from  lip  to  lip  by  his  party,  and  I saw 
in  their  lowering  looks  and  darkened  features  that  the  momeat 
was  a critical  one  for  me. 


m 


DBARLES  aMALLEi 


Down  with  your  arms!”  cried  he,  turning  to  the  French- 
men. “Surrender  yourselves  our  prisoners;  I’ll  not  bid  ye 
twice!” 

The  Frenchmen  turned  upon  me  an  inquiring  look,  as  though 
to  say  that  upon  me  now  their  hopes  entirely  reposed. 

“Do  as  he  bids  you,”  said  I;  while  at  the  same  moment  I 
sprang  to  my  legs,  and  gave  a loud  shrill  whistle,  the  last  echo 
of  which  had  not  died  away  in  the  distance  ere  it  was  re- 
plied to. 

“Make  no  resistance  now,”  said  I to  the  Frenchmen,  “our 
safety  depends  upon  this.” 

While  this  was  passing,  two  of  the  Spaniards  had  dismounted, 
and,  detaching  a coil  of  rope  whichjhung  from  their  saddle  peaks, 
were  proceeding  to  tie  the  prisoners  wrist  to  wrist,  the  others, 
with  their  carbines  to  the  shoulder,  covered  us  man  by  man,  the 
chief  of  the  party  having  singled  out  me  as  his  peculiar  prey. 

“The  fate  of  Mascarhenhas  might  have  taught  you  better,” 
said  he,  “ than  to  play  this  game;”  and  then  added,  with  a grim 
smile,  “ but  we’ll  see  if  an  Englishman  will  not  make  as  good  a 
carbonado  as  a Portuguese.” 

This  cruel  speech  made  my  blood  run  cold,  for  I knew  well  to 
what  he  alluded.  I was  at  Lisbon  at  the  time  it  happened,  but 
the  melancholy  fate  of  Julian  Mascarhenhas,  the  Portuguese  spy, 
had  reached  me  there.  He  was  burnt  to  death  at  Torres  Vedras. 

The  Spaniard’s  triumph  over  my  terror  was  short-lived  indeed ; 
for  scarcely  had  the  words  fallen  from  his  lips  when  a party  of 
the  Fourteenth,  dashing  through  the  river  at  a gallop,  came 
riding  up.  The  attitude  of  the  guerrillas,  as  they  sat  with  pre- 
sented arms,  was  sufficient  for  my  fellows,  who  needed  not  the 
exhortation  of  him  who  rode  foremost  of  the  party: 

“Ride them  down,  boys!  Tumble  them  over!  Flatten  their 
broad  beavers,  the  infernal  thieves!” 

“Whoop!”  shouted  Mike,  as  he  rode  at  the  chief  with  the 
force  of  a catapult.  Down  went  the  Spaniard,  horse  and  all, 
and,  before  he  could  disentangle  himself,  Mike  was  upon  him, 
his  knee  pressed  upon  his  neck. 

“ Isn’t  it  enough  for  ye  to  pillage  the  whole  country,  without 
robbing  the  King’s  throops?”  cried  he,  as  he  held  him  fast  to  the 
earth  with  one  hand,  while  he  presented  a loaded  pistol  to  his 
face. 

By  this  time  the  scene  around  me  was  sufficiently  ludicrous. 
Such  of  the  guerrillas  as  had  not  been  thrown  by  force  from  their 
saddles,  had  slid  peaceably  down,  and,  depositing  their  arms 
upon  the  ground,  dropped  upon  their  knees  in  a semicircle  around 
us;  and,  amid  the  hoarse  laughter  of  the  troopers  and  the  irre- 
pressible merriment  of  the  Frenchmen,  rose  up  the  muttered 
prayers  of  the  miserable  Spaniards,  who  believed  their  last 
hour  had  come. 

Madrede  Dios,  indeed!”  cried  Mike,  imitating  the  tone  of  a 
repentant  old  sinner  in  a patched  mantle;  “ it’s  much  the  blessed 
Virgin  thinks  of  the  like  o’  ye,  thieves  and  rogues  as  ye  are;  it 
a’ most  puts  me  beyond  my  senseSp  to  see  ye  there  crossing  your- 
selves like  mZ(3  Christians.” 


CHARLES  OMALLEV, 


m 


I could  not  help  indulging  myself  in  this  retributive  cruelty 
toward  the  chief,  and  leaving  him  to  the  tender  mercies  of  Mike, 
I ordered  the  others  to  rise  and  form  in  line  before  me.  Affect- 
ing to  occupy  myself  entirely  with  them,  I withdrew  the  atten 
tion  of  all  from  the  French  officers,  who  remained  quiet  specta- 
tors of  the  scene  around  them. 

“ There,  Mike,  let  the  poor  devil  rise.”  I confess  appearances 
were  strong  against  me,  just  now.  ‘‘  Well,  Captain,  are  you 
convinced  by  this  time  time  that  I was  not  deceiving  you  ?” 

The  guerrilla  muttered  some  words  of  apology  between  his 
teeth,  and  while  he  shook  the  dust  from  his  cloak,  and  arranged 
the  broken  feathers  of  his  hat,  cast  a look  of  scowling  and  indig- 
nant meaning  upon  Mike,  whose  rough  treatment  he  had  evi- 
dently not  forgiven. 

“ Don’t  be  looking  at  me  that  way,  you  black  thief!  or  I’ll ” 

“Hold  there!”  said  I — “ no  more  of  this.  Come,  gentlemen, 
we  must  be  friends.  If  I mistake  not,  we’ve  got  something- like 
refreshment  at  our  bivouac.  In  any  case,  you’ll  partake  of  our 
watch-fire  till  morning.” 

They  gladly  accepted  our  invitation,  and  ere  half  an  hour 
elapsed,  Mike’s  performance  in  the  part  of  host  had  completely 
erased  every  unpleasant  impression  his  first  appearance  gave  rise 
to;  and  as  for  myself,  when  I did  sleep  at  last,  the  confused 
mixture  of  Spanish  and  Irish  airs,  which  issued  from  the  thicket 
beside  me,  proved  that  a most  friendly  alliance  had  grown  up 
between  the  parties. 

“ Point  def aeons,  gentleman,”  said  I,  in  a whisper.  “ Get  to 
your  horses  and  away!  nows  your  time;  good-bye!  ” 

A warm  grasp  of  the  hand  from  each  was  tha  only  reply,  and 
I turned  once  more  to  my  discomfitted  friends,  the  guerrillas. 


CHAPTER  XCIV. 

THE  ARREST. 

An  hour  before  daybreak  the  guerrillas  were  in  motion,  and> 
having  taken  a most  ceremonious  leave  of  us,  they  mounted  th^'ff 
horses  and  set  out  upon  their  journey.  I saw  their  gaunt  figure^ 
wind  down  the  valley,  and  watched  them  till  they  disappeared 
in  the  distance.  Yes,  brigands  though  they  be,  thought  I,  there 
is  something  fine,  something  heroic,  in  their  spirit  of  unrelent- 
ing vengeance,  the  sleuth-hound  never  followed  the  lair  of  his 
victim  with  a more  ravening  appetite  for  blood  than  they  track 
the  retreating  columns  of  the  enemy.  Hovering  around  the  line 
of  march,  they  sometimes  swoop  down  in  masses,  and  carry  off  a 
part  of  the  baggage,  or  the  wounded.  The  wearied  soldier,  over- 
come by  heat  and  exhaustion,  who  drops  behind  his  ranks,  is 
their  certain  victim;  the  sentry  on  an  advance  post  is  scarcely 
less  so.  Whole  pickets  are  sometimes  attacked  and  carried  off  to 
a man;  and  when  traversing  the  lonely  passes  of  some  mountain 
gorge,  or  defiling  through  the  dense  shadows  of  a wooded  glen, 
the  stoutest  heart  has  felt  a fear,  lest  from  behind  the  rock  that 
frowned  above  him,  or  from  the  leafy  thicket,  whose  branches 


180 


CHARLES  CPMALLEY. 


stirred  without  a breeze,  the  sharp  ring  of  a guerrilla  carbine 
might  sound  his  death-knell. 

It  was  thus  in  the  retreat  upon  Corunna  fell  Colonel  Lefebre, 
Ever  foremost  in  the  attack  upon  our  rear  guard,  this  gallant 
youth  (he  was  scarce  six-and-twenty)  a Colonel  of  his  regiment, 
and  decorated  with  the  legion  of  honor  he  led  on  every-charge  of 
his  bold  ‘‘  sahreurs,^^  riding  up  to  the  very  bayonets  of  our  squares, 
and  waving  his  hat  above  his  head,  and  seeming  actually  to 
court  his  death  wound ; but  so  struck  were  our  brave  fellows 
with  his  gallant  bearing  that  they  cheered  him  as  he  came  on. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  moments  as,  rising  high  in  his  stirrups, 
he  bore  down  upon  the  unflinching  ranks  of  the  British  infantry, 
the  shrill  whistle  of  a ball  strewed  the  leaves  upon  the  roadside, 
the  exulting  shout  of  a guerrilla  followed  it,  andnt  the  same  in- 
stant Lefebre  fell  forward  upon  his  horse’s  mane,  a deluge  of 
blood  bursting  from  his  bosom.  A broken  cry  escaped  his 
lips,  a last  effort  to  cheer  on  his  men;  his  noble  charger  galloped 
forward  between  our  squares,  bearing  to  us  as  our  prisoner  the 
corpse  of  his  rider. 

“Captain  O'Malley,”  said  a mounted  dragoon  to  the  advanced 
sentry  at  the  bottom  of  the  little  hill  upon  which  I was  standing; 

dispatches  from  headquarters,  sir,”  said  he,  deliverying  into 
my  hands  a large  sealed  packet  from  the  Adjutant- General’s 
office.  "While  he  proceeded  to  search  for  another  letter  of 
which  he  was  the  bearer,  I broke  the  seal  and  read  as  follows: 

“Sir, — On  the  receipt  of  this  order  you  are  directed,  having 
previously  resigned  your  command  to  the  officer  next  in  senior- 
ity, to  repair  to  headquarters  at  Fuentes  d’Onoro,  there  to  report 
yourself  under  arrest.  I have  the  honor  to  be, 

“Your  obedient  servant, 
“George  Hopeton, 

“ Military  Secretary.” 

What  the  devil  can  this  mean?  said  I to  myself,  as  I read  the 
lines  over  again  and  again.  What  have  I done  lately,  or  what 
have  I left  undone  to  involve  me  in  this  scrape ? Ah!  thought  I, 
to  be  sure  it  can  be  nothing  else.  Lord  Wellington  did  recognize 
me  that  unlucky  morning,  and  has  determined  not  to  let  me 
pass  unpunished.  How  unfortunate!  scarcely  twenty-four  hours 
have  elapsed  since  fortune  seemed  to  smile  upon  me  from  every 
side,  and  now  the  very  destiny  I most  dreaded  stares  me  fidl  in 
the  face.  A reprimand,  or  the  sentence  of  a court-martial,  I 
shrunk  from  with  a coward's  fear;  it  mattered  comparatively 
little  from  what  source  arising,  the  injury  to  my  pride  as  a man 
and  my  spirit  as  a soldier,  would  be  almost  the  same. 

“ This  is  the  letter,  sir,”  said  the  orderly,  presenting  me  "with  a 
packet,  the  address  of  which  was  in  Power’s  handwriting. 
Eagerly  tearing  it  open,  I sought  for  something  which  might  ex- 
plain my  unhappy  position.  It  bore  the  same  date  as  the  official 
letter,  and  ran  thus: 

“ My  DeXR  Charley, — I joined  yesterday,  just  in  time  to 
have  the  heartiest  laugh  I liave  had  since  our  meeting.  If  noto- 
riety can  gratify  you,  by  Jove  you  have  it;  for  Charles  O’Malley 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


131 


and  his  man  Mickey  Free  are  by- words  in  every  mess  from  Villa 
Formosa  to  the  rear  guard.  As  it’s  only  fair  you  should  partici- 
pate a little  in  the  fun  you’ve  originated,  let  me  explain  the 
cause:  Your  inimitable  man  Mike,  to  whom,  it  appears,  you  in- 
trusted the  report  of  killed  and  wounded  for  the  Adjutant-Gen- 
eral, having  just  at  that  moment  accomplished  a letter  to  his 
friends  at  home,  substituted  his  correspondence  for  your  returns, 
and  doubtless  sent  the  list  of  the  casualities  as  very  interesting 
information  to  his  sweetheart  in  Ireland.  If  such  be  the  case, 
I hope  and  trust  she  has  taken  the  blunder  in  better  part  than' 
old  Colbourn,  who  swears  he’ll  bring  you  to  a court-martial,  un- 
der Heaven  knows  what  charges.  In  fact,  his  passion  has  known 
no  bounds  since  that  event;  and  a fit  of  jaundice  has  given  his 
face  a kind  of  neutral  tint  between  green  and  yellow,  like  noth- 
ing I know  of,  except  the  facings  of  the  ‘ dirty  half- hundred.’  * 

“As  Mr,  Free’s  letter  may  be  as  great  a curiosity  to  you  as  it 
has  been  to  us,  I inclose  you  a copy  of  it,  which  Hopeton  ob- 
tained for  me.  It  certainly  places  the  estimable  Mike  in  a 
strong  light  as  a dispatch-writer.  The  occasional  interruption 
to  the  current  of  the  letter,  you  will  perceive,  arises  from  Mike 
having  used  the  pen  of  a comrade,  writing  being,  doubtless,  an 
accomplishment  forgotten  in  the  haste  of  preparing  Mr.  Free  for 
the  world:  and  the  amanuensis  has,  in  more  than  one  instance, 
committed  to  paper  more  than  was  meant  by  the  author: 

“ ‘ Mrs.  M’Gra, — Tare  and  ages,  sure  I need  not  be  treating  her 
that  way.  Now  just  say,  Mrs.  Mary — ay,  that’ll  do — Mrs.  Mary, 
it’s  may  be  surprised  that  you’ll  be  to  be  reading  a letter  from 
your  humble  servant,  sitting  on  the  top  of  the  Alps.  Arrah, 
may  belt’s  not  the  Alps;  but  sure  she’ll  never  know — foment  the 
whole  French  army,  with  Bony  himself  and  all  his  jinerals — 
God  be  between  us  and  harm — ready  to  murther  every  mother’s 
son  of  us,  av  they  was  able,  Molly  darlin’;  but,  with  the  blessing 
of  Providence,  and  Lord  Wellington,  and  Misther  Charles,  we’ll 
bate  them  yet,  as  we  bate  them  afore. 

“ ‘ My  lips  is  wathering  at  the  thought  o’  the  plunder.  I often 
think  of  Tim  Riley,  that  was  hanged  for  sheep-stealing;  he’d  be 
worth  his  weight  in  gold  here. 

“‘Misther  Charles  is  now  Captain — devil  a less — and  myself 
might  be  somethin’  that  same,  but  ye  see  I was  always  of  a bash- 
ful nature,  and  recommended  the  masther  in  my  place.  He’s 
mighty  young,  Mr.  Charles  is,  says  my  Lord  Wellington  to  me — 
he’s  mighty  young,  Mr.  Free.  “ He  is,  my  lord,”  says  I;  “he’s 
young,  as  you  obsarve;  but  he’s  as  much  divilment  in  him  as 
many  that  might  be  his  father.”  “That’s  somethin’,  Mr.  Free,” 
says  my  lord;  ‘ ‘ ye  say  he  comes  of  a good  stock.”  “ The  rale  sort, 
my  lord,”  says  I;  “an  ould,  ancient  family,  that  spent  every  six- 
pence they  had  in  treating  their  neighbors.  My  father  lived  near 
them  for  years  ” — you  see,  Molly,  I said  that  to  season  the  dis- 
course. “ We’ll  make  him  a Captain,”  says  my  lord;  “ but,  Mr, 

* For  the  information  of  my  unmiHtary  readers.  I may  remark  that  thQ 
sobriquet  was  applied  to  the  Fiftieth  Regiment 


132 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


Free,  could  we  do  nothing  for  you?”  ‘‘Nothing  at  present,  my 
lord.  When  my  friends  comes  into  power,”  says  I,  ‘ ‘ they’ll  think 
of  me.  There’s  many  a little  thing  to  give  away  in  Ireland, 
and  they  often  find  it  mighty  hard  to  find  a man  for  Lord 
Lieutenant;  and  if  that  same  ora  tide-waiter’s  place  was  vacant 

now ” “Just  tell  me,”  says  my  lord.  “ It’s  what  I’ll  do,” 

says  I.  “And  now,  wishing  you  happy  dreams,  I'll  take  my 
lave.”  Just  so,  Molly,  it’s  hand  and  glove  we  are.  A pleas- 
ant face,  agreeable  manners,  seasoned  with  natural  mod- 
esty, and  a good  pair  of  legs,  them’s  the  gifts  to  push 
a man’s  way  in  the  world.  And  even  with  the  ladies — 
but  sure  I’m  forgetting,  my  masther  was  proposed  for,  and  your 
humble  servant,  too,  by  two  illigant  creatures  in  Lisbon;  but  it 
wouldn’t  do,  Molly — it's  higher  nor  that  we’ll  be  looking— ra^e 
princess,  the  devil  a less.  Tell  Kitty  Hannigan  I hope  she's  well 
— she  was  a desarving  young  woman  in  her  situation  in  life. 
Shusey  Dogherty,  at  the  cross-roads,  if  I don’t  forget  the  name, 
was  a good-looking  slip,  too — give  her  my  affectionate  saluta- 
tions, as  we  say  in  the  Portuguese.  I hope  I’ll  be  able  to  bear  the 
inclementuous  nature  of  your  climate  when  I go  back;  but  I 
can’t  expect  to  stay  long,  for  Lord  Wellington  can't  get  along 
without  me.  We  play  duets  on  the  guitar  together  every 
evening.  The  masther  is  shouting  for  a blanket,  so  no  more  at 
present  from 

“ ‘ Your  very  affectionate  friend, 

“ ‘ Mickey  Free. 

“ ‘ P.S. — I don’t  write  this  myself,  for  the  Spanish  tongue 
puts  me  out  o’  the  habit  of  English.  Tell  Father  Rush,  if  he'd 
stud.y  ih^  Portuguese,  I’d  use  my  interest  for  him  with  the 
Bishop  of  Toledo.  It’s  a country  he’d  like — no  regular  stations, 
but  promiscuous  eating  and  drinking,  and  as  pretty  girls  as  ever 
confessed  their  sins.’ 

“My  poor  Charley,  I think  I am  looking  at  you.  I think  I 
can  see  the  struggle  between  indignation  and  laughter,  which 
every  line  of  this  letter  inflicts  upon  yon.  Get  back  as  quickly  as 
you  can,  and  we’ll  try  if  Crawford  won’t  pull  you  through  the 
« business.  In  any  case,  expect  no  sympathy,  and  if  you  feel  dis- 
posed to  be  angry  with  all  who  laugh  at  you,  you  had  better  pub- 
lish a.  challenge  in  the  next  General  Order.  George  Scott,  of  the 
Greys,  bid  me  say,  that  if  you’re  hard-up  for  cash  he’ll  give  you  a 
couple  of  hundred  for  Mickey  Free.  I told  him  I thought  you'd 
accept  it,  as  your  uncle  has  the  breed  of  those  fellows  upon  his 
estate,  and  might  have  no  objection  to  weed  his  stud.  Ham- 
mersly’s  gone  back  with  the  Dashwoods;  but  I don’t  think  you 
need  fear  anything  in  that  quarter.  At  the  same  time,  if  you 
wish  for  success,  make  i,  boM  push  for  the  peerage,  and  half  a 
dozen  decorations,  for  Mis&  Lucy  is  decidedly  gone  wild  about 
military  decorationSc  As  for  me,  my  affairs  go  on  well;  I’  ve  had 
half  a dozen  quarrels  with  Inez,  but  we  parted  good  friends,  and 
my  bad  Portuguese  has  got  me  out  of  all  difficulties  with  papa, 
who  pressed  me  tolerably  close  as  to  fortune.  I shall  want  your 
assistance  in  this  matter  jet.  If  parchments  would  satisfy  him, 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


133 


I think  I could  get  up  a qualification;  but  somehow  the  matter* 
must  be  done,  for  I'm  resolved  to  have  his  daughter. 

“ The  orderly  is  starting,  so  no  more  till  we  meet. 

“Yours  ever,  Fred.  Power/’ 

“ Godwin,”  said  I,  as  I closed  the  letter,  “ I find  myself  in  a 
scrape  at  headquarters;  you  are  to  take  command  of  the  detach- 
ment, for  I must  set  out  at  once.” 

“ Nothing  serious,  I hope,  OMalley.” 

“ Oh,  no,  nothing  of  consequence.  A most  absurd  blunder  of 
my  rascally  servant.” 

“ The  Irish  fellow,  yonder?” 

“ The  same.” 

“ He  seems  to  take  it  easily,  however.” 

“ Oh,  confound  him  I he  does  not  know  what  trouble  he  has 
involved  me  in;  not  that  he’ll  care  much  when  he  does.” 

“ Why,  he  does  not  seem  to  be  of  a very  desponding  tempera- 
ment. Listen  to  the  fellow!  I’ll  be  hanged  if  he’s  not  singing!” 

“ I’m  devilishly  disposed  to  spoil  his  mirth.  They  tell  me, 
however,  he  always  keeps  the  troop  in  good  humor;  and  see,  the 
fellows  are  actually  cleaning  his  horses  for  him,  while  he  is  sit- 
ting on  the  bank.” 

“Faith,  O’Malley,  that  fellow  knows  the  world.  Just  hear 
him.” 

Mr.  Free  was,  as  Godwin  described,  most  leisurely  reposing  on 
a bank,  a mug  of  something  drinkable  beside  him,  and  a pipe  of 
that  curtailed  proportion  which  an  Irishman  loves,  held  daintily 
between  his  fingers.  He  appeared  to  be  giving  his  directions  to 
some  soldiers  of  the  troop,  who  were  actually  cleaning  his  horses 
and  accouterments  for  him. 

“ That’s  it,  Jim!  Rub  ’em  down  along  the  hocks;  he  won’t 
kick;  it’s  only  play.  Scrub  away,  honey,  that’s  the  devil’s  own 
carbine  to  get  clean.” 

“Well,  I say,  Mr.  Free,  are  you  going  to  give  us  that  ’ere 
song?” 

^ “ Yes;  I’ll  be  danged  if  I burnish  your  saber  if  you  don’t 
sing.” 

“Tare  and  ages!  ain't  I composin’  it?  Av  I was  Tommy 
Moore  I couldn’t  be  quicker.” 

“ Well,  come  along,  my  hearty;  let’s  hear  it.” 

“Oh,  murther!”  said  Mike,  draining  the  pot  to  its  last  few 
drops,  which  he  poured  pathetically  upon  the  grass  before  him, 
and  then  having  em])tied  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  he  heaved  a 
deep  sigh,  as  though  to  say,  life  had  no  more  pleasures  in  store 
for  him.  A brief  pause  followed,  after  which,  to  the  evident 
delight  of  his  expectant  audience,  he  began  the  following  song, 
to  the  popular  air  of  “ Paddy  O’Carroll;” 

“BAD  LUCK  TO  THIS  MARCHING.” 

Air — “paddy  o’oarroll.” 

“ Bad  luck  to  this  marching, 

Pipeclaying  and  starching; 

How  neat  one  must  be  to  be  killed  by  the  Preuch! 


134 


CHABLES  aMALLEY. 


I’m  sick  of  parading, 

Through  wet  and  cold  wading, 

Or  standing  all  night  to  be  shot  in  the  trench. 

To  the  tune  of  a fife 
They  dispose  of  your  life, 

You  surrender  your  soul  to  some  illigant  lilt; 

Now  I like  Garryowen 
When  I hear  it  at  home, 

But  it’s  not  half  so  sweet  when  you’re  going  to  be  kilt, 

“ Then  though  up  late  and  early. 

Our  pay  comes  so  rarely, 

The  devil  a farthing  we’ve  ever  to  spare; 

They  say  some  disaster 
Befell  the  paymaster; 

On  my  conscience  I think  that  the  money’s  not  there. 

And,  just  think,  what  a blunder; 

They  won’t  let  us  plunder. 

While  the  convents  invite'us  to  rob  them,  ’tis  clear; 

Though  there  isn’t  a village 
But  cries  ‘ Come  and  pillage,’ 

Yet  we  leave  all  the  mutton  behind  for-Mounseer, 

“ Like  a sailor  that’s  nigh  land, 

I long  for  that  island 

Where  even  the  kisses  we  steal  if  we  please; 

Where  it  is  no  disgrace 
If  you  don’t  wash  your  face, 

And  you’ve  nothing  to  do  but  to  stand  at  your  ease. 

With  no  sergeant  t’  abuse  us, 

We  fight  to  amuse  us, 

Sure  it’s  better  beat  Christian  than  kick  a baboon; 

How  I’d  dance  like  a fairy, 

To  see  ouid  Dunleary, 

And  think  twice  ere  I’d  leave  it  to  be  a dragoon!” 

‘‘  There’s  a sweet  little  bit  for  you,”  said  Mike,  as  he  concluded; 
‘Uhrown  off  as  aisy  as  a game  of  football,” 

“ I say,  Mr.  Free,  the  Captain’s  looking  for  you;  he’s  just  re- 
ceived dispatches  from  the  camp,  and  wants  his  horses.” 

“ In  that  case,  gentlemen,  I must  take  my  leave  of  you — with 
the  more  regret,  too,  that  I was  thinking  of  treating  you  to  a 
s, upper  this  evening.  You  need  not  be  laughing,  it’s  in  earnest 
l am.  Coming,  sir — coming!”  shouted  he  in  a louder  tone,  an- 
swering some  imaginary  call,  as  an  excuse  for  his  exit. 

When  he  appeared  before  me,  an  air  of  most  business-like 
alacrity  had  succeeded  to  his  late  appearance,  and  having  taken 
my  orders  to  get  the  horses  in  readiness,  he  left  me  at  once,  and 
in  less  than  half  an  hour  we  were  upon  the  road. 


CHAPTER  XCV. 

MONSOON  IN  TROUBLE, 

As  I rode  along  toward  Fuent(3S  d’Onoro,  I could  not  help  feel- 
ing provoked  at  the  absurd  circumstances  in  which  I was  in- 
volved. To  be  made  the  subject  of  laughter  for  a ^vhole  army 
was  by  no  means  a pleasant  consideration;  but  what  I felt  far 


CHARLES  OmALLEY. 


185 


worse  was  the  possibility  that  the  mention  of  my  name  in  con- 
nection with  a reprimand  might  reach  the  ears  of  those  who 
knew  nothing  of  the  cause. 

Mr.  Free  himself  seemed  little  under  the  influence  of  similai 
feelings;  for  when,  after  a silence  of  a couple  of  hours,  I turned 
suddenly  toward  him  with  a half  angry  look,  and  remarked: 
“ You  see,  sir,  what  your  confounded  blundering  has  done;”  his 
cool  reply  was: 

“Ah,  then,  won’t  Mrs.  M’Gra  be  frightened  out  of  her  life 
when  she  reads  all  about  the  killed  and  wounded  in  your  honor’s 
report!  I wonder  if  they  ever  had  the  manners  to  send  my 
own  letter  afterward,  when  they  found  out  their  mistake!” 

Their  mistake!  do  you  say?  rather  yours!  You  appear  to 
have  a happy  knack  of  shifting  blame  from  your  own  shoulders; 
and  do  you  fancy  that  they’ve  nothing  else  to  do  than  to  trouble 
their  heads  about  your  absurd  letters  ?” 

“Faith!  it’s  easily  seen  you  never  saw  my  letter,  or  you 
wouldn’t  be  saying  that;  and  sure  it’s  not  much  trouble  it  would 
give  Colonel  Fitzroy,  or  any  o’  the  staff  that  writes  a good  hand, 
just  to  put  in  a line  to  Mrs.  M*Gra,  to  preven  t her  feeling  alarmed 
about  that  murthering  paper.  Well,  well,  it’s  God’s  blessing!  I 
don’t  think  there’s  anybody  of  the  name  of  Mickey  Free  high  up 
in  the  army  but  myself;  so  that  the  family  won’t  be  going  into 
mourning  for  me  on  a false  alarm.” 

I had  not  patience  to  participate  in  this  view  of  the  case;  so 
that  I continued  my  journey  without  speaking.  We  had  jogged 
along  for  some  time  after  dark,  when  the  distant  twinkle  of  the 
watch-fires  announced  our  approach  to  the  camp.  A detachment 
of  the  Fourteenth  formed  the  advanced  post,  and  from  the  officer 
in  command  I learned  that  Power  was  quartered  at  a small  mill 
about  half  a mile  distant;  thither  I accordingly  turned  my  steps, 
but,  finding  that  the  path  which  led  abruptly  down  to  it  was 
broken,  and  cut  up  in  many  places,  I sent  Mike  back  with  the" 
horses,  and  continued  my  way  alone  on  foot. 

The  night  was  deliciously  calm,  and,  as  I approached  the  little 
rustic  mill,  I could  not  help  feeling  struck  with  Power's  taste  in 
a billet. 

A little  vine-clad  cottage,  built  close  against  a rock  nearly 
concealed  by  the  dense  foliage  around  it,  stood  beside  a clear 
rivulet  whose  eddying  current  supplied  water  to  the  mill,  and 
rose  in  a dew-like  spray  which  sparkled  like  gen^s  in  the  pale 
moonlight.  All  was  still  within,  but  as  I came  nearer  I thought 
I could  detect  the  chords  of  a guitar.  Can  it  be,  thought  I,  that 
Master  Fred  has  given  himself  up  to  minstrelsy!  or  is  it  some 
little  dress  rehearsel  fora  serenade?  But,  no,  thought  I,  that 
certainly  is  not  Power’s  voice.  I crept  stealthily  down  the  little 
path,  and  approached  the  window;  the  lattice  lay  open,  and,  as 
the  curtain  waved  to  and  fro  with  the  night  air,  I could  see  plain- 
ly all  who  were  in  the  room. 

Close  beside  the  window  sat  a large,  dark-featured  Spaniard, 
his  hands  crossed  upon  his  bosom,  and  his  head  inclined  heavily 
forward;  the  attitude  perfectly  denoting  deep  sleep,  even  had  not 
his  cigar,  which  remained  passively  between  his  lips,  ceased  to 


186 


CHARLES  a MILLET. 


gi^e  forth  its  blue  smoke  wreath.  At  a little  distance  from  him 
sat  a young  girl,  who  even  by  the  uncertain  light  I could  per- 
ceive was  possessed  of  all  that  delicacy  of  form  and  gracefulness 
of  carriage  which  characterize  her  nation. 

Her  pale  features,  paler  still  from  the  contrast  with  her  jet- 
black  hair  and  dark  costume,  were  lit  up  with  an  expression  of 
animation  and  enthusiasm  as  her  fingers  swept  rapidly  and 
boldly  across  the  strings  of  a guitar. 

And  you’re  not  tired  of ?”  she  said,  bending  her  head 

downward  toward  one,  whom  I now  for  the  first  time  perceived. 

Eeclining  carelessly  at  her  feet,  his  arm  leaning  upon  her  chair, 
while  his  hand  occasionally  touched  her  taper  fingers,  lay  my 
friend,  Master  Fred  Power.  An  undress  jacket  thrown  loosely 
open,  and  a black  neck-cloth  negligently  knotted,  bespoke  the 
nonchalance  with  which  he  prosecuted  his  courtship. 

Do  sing  it  again!”  said  he,  pressing  her  fingers  to  his  lips. 

What  she  replied  I could  not  catch;  but  Fred  resumed:  “ No, 
no,  he  never  wakes;  the  infernal  clatter  of  that  mill  is  his  lulla- 
by.” 

“ But  your  friend  will  be  here  soon,”  said  she;  “ is  it  not  so?” 

“ Oh,  poor  Charley!  I’d  almost  forgotten  him;  by  the  bye,  you 
musn’t  fall  in  love  with  him;  there,  now,  do  not  look  angry;  I 
only  meant  that,  as  I knew  he’d  be  desperately  smitten,  you 
shouldn't  let  him  fancy  he  got  any  encouragement.” 

‘‘  What  would  you  have  me  do?”  said  she,  artlessly. 

“ I’ve  been  thinking  over  that,  too.  In  the  first  place,  you’d 
better  never  let  him  hear  you  sing;  scarcely  ever  smile,  and,  as 
far  as  possible,  keep  out  of  his  sight.” 

“ One  would  think,  senor,  that  all  these  precautions  were  to 
be  taken  more  on  my  account  than  his.  Is  he  so  very  danger- 
ous, then?” 

“ Not  a bit  of  it! — good  looking  enough  he  is,  but — only  a boy; 
at  the  same  time  a devilish  bold  one!  and  he’d  think  no  more  of 
springing  through  that  window,  and  throwing  his  arms  around 
your  neck,  the  very  first  moment  of  his  arrival,  than  I should  of 
whispering  how  much  I loved  you.” 

“ How  very  odd  he  must  be.  I’m  sure  I should  like  him.” 

‘‘Many  thanks  to  you  both  for  your  kind  hints,  and  now  to 
take  advantage  of  them.”  So  saying,  I stepped  lightly  upon  the 
window-sill,  cleared  the  miller  with  one  spring,  and  before  Power 

could  recover  his  legs,  or her  astonishment,  I clasped  her 

in  my  arms,  and  kissed  her  on  either  cheek. 

“Charley!  Charley!  Damn  it,  man,  it  won’t  do,”  cried  Fred, 
while  the  young  lady,  evidently  more  amused  at  his  discom- 
fiture thauafironted  at  the  liberty,  threw  herself  into  a seat  and 
laughed  immoderately. 

Ha!  Holloa  there!  What  is’t  ?”  shouted  the  miller,  rousing 
himself  from  his  nap,  and  looking  eagerly  around.  “Are  they 
coming?  Are  the  i^'ench  coming?” 

A hearty  renewal  of  his  daughter’s  laughter  was  the  only  re- 
ply; while  Power  relieved  his  anxiety  by  saying: 

“ No,  no,  Pedrillo,  not  the  French^  a mere  marauding  party; 
nothing  more.  I say,  Charley,”  continued  he  in  a lower  tone 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY, 


187 


“ you  liad  better  lose  no  time  in  reporting  yourself  at  headquar- 
ters. We’ll  walk  up  together.  Devilish  awkward  scrape  yours.” 

‘ ‘ Never  fear,  Fred;  time  enough  for  all  that.  For  the  present, 
if  you  permit  me.  I’ll  follow  up  my  acquaintance  with  our  fair 
friend  here.” 

“Gently,  gently!”  said  he,  with  a look  of  imposing  serious- 
ness. “ Don’t  mistake  her;  she's  not  a mere  country  girl;  you 
understand — been  bred  in  a convent  here — rather  superior  kind 
of  a thing.” 

“ Come,  come,  Fred,  I’m  not  the  man  to  interfere  with  you  for 
a moment.” 

“Good  night,  senor,”  said  the  old  miller,  who  had  been  wait- 
ing patiently  all  this  time  to  pay  his  respects  before  going. 

“ Yes;  that’s  it!”  cried  Power,  eagerly.  “ Good-night,  I’edrillo.” 

“ BuenoH  noches,"  lisped  out  Margaritta.  wdth  a slight  courtesy. 

I sprang  forward  to  acknowledge  her  salutation,  when  Power 
coolly  interposed  between  us,  and,  closing  the  door  after  them, 
placed  his  back  against  it. 

“ Master  Charley,  I must  read  you  a lesson '’ 

“You  inveterate  hypocrite,  don’t  attempt  this  nonsense  with 
me.  But  come,  tell  me  how  long  you  have  been  here.” 

“ Just  twenty-four  of  the  shortest  hours  I ever  passed  at  an 
outpost.  But  listen;  do  you  know  that  voice  ? Isn’t  it  O’Shaugh- 
nessy’s  ?” 

“ To  be  sure  it  is;  hear  the  fellow’s  song:'’ 

“My  father  cared  little  for  shot  or  shell, 

He  laughed  at  death  and  dangers; 

And  he’d  storm  the  very  gates  of  hell 
With  a company  of  the  ‘ Rangers.’ 

So  sing  tow,  row,  row,  row,  &c.” 

“ Ah,  then.  Mister  Power,  it’s  twice  I’d  think  of  returning 
your  visit,  if  I knew  the  state  of  your  avenue.  If  there’s  a gran<f 
jury  in  Spain,  they  might  give  you  a presentment  for  this  bit  o< 
road.  My  knees  are  as  bare  as  a commissary’s  conscience,  and 
I've  knocked  as  much  flesh  off  my  shin  bones  as  would  make  a 
cornet  in  the  hussars.” 

A regular  roar  of  laughter  from  both  of  us  apprised  Dennis  of 
our  vicinity. 

“And  it’s  laughing  ye  are!  Wouldn’t  it  be  as  polite  just  te 
hold  a candle  or  lantern  for  me,  in  this  confounded  water- 
course ?” 

“How  goes  it.  Major?”  cried  I,  extending  my  hand  to  him 
through  the  window. 

“ Charley  “Charley  O’Malley,  my  son!  I’m  glad  to  see  you. 
It’s  a hearty  laugh  you  gave  us  this  morning.  My  friend 
Mickey’s  a pleasant  fellow  for  a Secretary  at  War.  But  it’s  all 
settled  now.  Crawford  arranged  it  for  you  this  afternoon.” 

“You  don’t  say  so!  Pray  tell  me  all  about  it.” 

“That’s  just  what  I won’t;  for,  ye  see,  I don’t  know  it;  but 
I believe  old  Monsoon’s  affair  has  put  everything  out  of  their 
heads.” 

“ Monsoon’s  aifair!  What  is  that?  Out  wdth  it,  Dennis.” 


138 


CHARLES  ohi  ALLEY. 

“Faith,  I’ll  be  just  as  discreet  about  that  as  your  own  busi* 
ness.  All  I can  tell  you  is,  that  they  brought  him  up  to  head- 
quarters this  evening,  with  a sergeant’s  guard,  and  they  say  he’s 
to  be  tried  by  court-martial;  and  Picton  is  in  a blessed  humor 
about  it.” 

‘ ‘ What  could  it  possibly  have  been  ? some  plundering  affair, 
depend  on  it.” 

“ Faith,. you  may  sVvear  it  wasn’t  for  his  little  charities,  as  Dr, 
Pangless  calls  them,  they've  pulled  him  up,”  cried  Power. 

“ Maurice  is  in  high  feather  about  it,”  said  Dennis.  “ There 
are  five  of  them  up  at  Fuentes,  making  a list  of  charges  to  send 
to  Monsoon;  for  Bob  Mahon,  it  seems,  heard  of  the  old  fellow's 
doings  up  the  mountains.” 

“What  glorious  fnni”  said  Power.  “ Haste  and  join  them, 
boys!” 

“ Agreed,”  said  L “ Is  it  far  from  this  ?” 

“ Another  stage.  When  we’ve  got  something  to  eat,”  said  the 
Major,  “ if  Power  has  any  intentions  that  way ” 

“ Well,  I really  did  begin  to  fear  Fred’s  memory  was  lapsing; 
but  somehow,  poor  fellow,  smiles  have  been  more  in  his  way 
than  sandwiches  lately.” 

An  admonishing  look  from  Power  was  his  only  reply,  as  he 
walked  toward  the  door.  Bent  upon  teasing  him,  however,  I 
continued: 

“Who — Monsoon,  is  it?” 

“No,  no.  Not  Monsoon;  another  friend  of  ours.” 

“ Faith,  I scarcely  thought  your  fears  of  old  Monsoon  worth 
calling  for.  He’s  a fox — the  devil  a less.” 

“ No,  no,  Dennis;  I wasn’t  thinking  of  him.  My  anxieties 
were  for  a most  soft-hearted  young  gentleman — one  Fred 
Power.” 

“Charley,  Charley!”  said  Fred  from  the  door,  where  he  had 
been  giving  directions  to  his  servant  about  supper;  “ a man  can 
scarce  do  a more  silly  thing  than  marry  in  the  army — all  the  dis- 
agreeables of  married  life,  with  none  of  its  better  features.” 

“Marry — marry!”  shouted  O’Shaughnessy;  “upon  my  con- 
science, it  is  incomprehensible  to  me  how  a man  can  be  guilty 
of  it.  To  be  sure,  I don’t  mean  to  say  that  there  are  not  cir- 
cumstances— such  as  half  pay,  old  age,  infirmity,  the  loss  of 
your  limbs,  and  the  like;  but  that,  with  good  health,  and  a small 
balance  at  your  banker’s,  you  should  be  led  into  such  an  em- 
barrassment  ” 

“ Men  will  flirt,”  said  I,  interrupting;  “ men  will  press  taper 
fingers,  look  into  bright  eyes,  and  feel  their  witchery;  and  al- 
though the  fair  owners  be  only  quizzing  them  half  the  time,  and 
amusing  themselves  the  other,  and  though  they  be  the  veriest 
hackneyed  coquettes ” 

“Did  you  ever  meet  the  Dairy mple  girls,  Dennis?”  said 
Fred,  with  a look  I shall  never  forget. 

What  the  reply  was  I cannot  tell.  My  shame  and  confusion 
were  overwhelming,  and  Power’s  victory  complete. 

“Here  comes  the  prog,”  cried  Dennis,  aj  Power’s  servant 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY.  139 

entered  with  a very  plausible  looking  tray,  while  Fred  proceed- 
ed to  place  before  us  a strong  army  of  decanters. 

Our  supper  was  excellent;  and  we  were  enjoying  ourselves  to 
the  utmost,  when  an  orderly  sergeant  suddenly  opened  the 
door,  and  raising  his  hand  to  his  cap,  asked  if  Major  Power  was 
there. 

“ A letter  for  you,  sir.” 

“Monsoon’s  writing,  by  Jove!  Come,  boys,  let  us  see  what 
it  means.  Wliat  a hand  the  old  fellow  writes!  The  letters  look 
all  crazy,  and  are  tumbling  against  each  other  on  every  side. 
Did  yoii  ever  see  anything  half  so  tipsy  as  the  crossing  of 
that  W' 

“Read it;  read  it  out,  Fred  1” 

“ ‘ Tuesday  Evening. 

‘ Dear  Power, — Pm  in  such  a scrape!  Come  uj)  and  see  me 
at  once:  bring  a little  sherry  with  you;  and  weTl  talk  over 
what’s  to  be  done.  Yours  ever, 

“‘Quartermaster-General.  B.  Monsoon.”’ 

We  resolved  to  finish  our  evening  with  the  Major,  so  that, 
each  having  armed  himself  with  a bottle  or  two,  and  the  rem- 
nants of  our  supper,  we  set  out  toward  his  quarters,  under  the 
guidance  of  the  orderly.  After  a sharp  walk  of  half  an  hour, 
we  reached  a small  hut.  Where  two  sentries  of  the  Eighty-eighth 
were  posted  at  the  door. 

O’Shaughnessy  procured  admittance  for  us,  and  in  we  went. 
At  a small  table,  lighted  by  a thin  tallow  candle,  sat  old  Mon- 
soon, who,  the  weather  being  hot,  had  neither  coat  nor  wig  on; 
an  old  cracked  china  tea-pot,  in  which,  as  we  found  afterward, 
he  had  mixed  a little  grog,  stood  before  him,  and  a large  mass 
of  papers  lay  scattered  around  on  every  side;  he  himself  being 
occupied  in  poring  over  their  contents,  and  taking  occasional 
draughts  from  his  uncouth  goblet. 

As  we  entered  noiselessly  he  never  perceived  us^^but  continued 
to  mumble  over,  in  a low  tone,  from  the  documents  before  him: 

“ Upon  my  life,  it’s  like  a dream  to  me.  What  infernal  stuff 
this  brandy  is! 

“ ‘ Charge  No,  8. — For  conduct  highly  unbecoming  an  officer 
and  a gentleman,  in  forcing  the  cellar  of  the  San  Nicholas  con- 
vent at  Banos,  taking  large  quantities  of  wine  therefrom,  and 
subsequently  compelling  the  Prior  to  dance  a bolero,  thus  creat- 
ing a riot,  and  tending  to  destroy  the  harmony  between  the 
British  and  the  Portuguese,  so  strongly  inculcated  to  be  preserved 
by  the  general  orders.’ 

“ Destroying  the  harmony!  Bless  their  hearts!  How  little 
they  know  of  it!  I’ve  never  seen  a jollier  night  in  the  Penin- 
sula! The  Prior's  a trump,  and,  as  for  the  bolero,  he  would 
ilance  it.  I hope  they  say  nothing  about  my  hornpipe. 

“ ‘ Charge  No.  9. — For  a gross  violation  of  his  duty  as  an  of- 
ficer, in  sending  a part  of  his  brigade  to  attack  and  pillage  the 
Arcade  of  Banos;  thereby  endangering  the  public  peace  of  the 
town,  being  a fiagrant  breach  of  discipline  and  direct  violation  of 
f he  articles  of  war.’ 


140 


CHARLES  SMALLEY 


“ Well,  I’m  afraid  I was  rather  sharp  on  the  Alcade,  but  we 
did  him  no  harm  except  the  fright.  What  sherry  the  fellow 
had!  ’Twould  have  been  a sin  to  have  let  it  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  French. 

“ ‘Charge  No.  10. — For  threatening,  on  or  about  the  night  of 
the  3d,  to  place  the  town  of  Banos  under  contribution,  and  sub- 
sequently forcing  the  authorities  to  walk  in  procession  before 
him,  in  absurd  and  ridiculous  costumers.’ 

“ Lord,  how  good  it  was!  I shall  never  forget  the  old  Alcade! 
One  of  my  fellows  fastened  a dead  lamb  round  his  neck,  and 
told  him  it  was  the  golden  fleece.  The  Commander-in-Chief 
would  have  laughed  himself  if  he  were  there.  Picton’s  much 
too  grave;  never  likes  a joke. 

“‘Charge  No.  11. — For  insubordination  and  disobedience  in 
refusing  to  give  up  his  sword,  and  rendering  it  necessary  for  the 
Portugese  guard  to  take  it  by  force;  thereby  placing  him  in  a 
situation  highly  degrading  to  a British  offlcer.’ 

“Didn’t  I lay  about  me  before  they  got  it!  Who’s  that? 
Who’s  laughing  there?  Ah,  boys,  I’m  glad  to  see  you.  How  are 
you,  Fred  ? Well,  Charley,  I’ve  heard  of  your  scrape;  very  sad 
thing  for  so  young  a fellow  as  you  are;  I don’t  think  you’ll  be 
broke;  I’ll  do  what  I can — I’ll  see  what  I can  do  with  Picton; 
we  are  very  old  friends — were  at  Eton  together.” 

“ Many  thanks,  Majqr,  but  I hear  your  own  affairs  are  not 
flourishing.  What’s  all  this  court-martial  about?” 

“A  mere  trifle;  some  little  insubordination  in  the  legion. 
Those  Portuguese  are  sad  dogs.  How  very  good  of  you,  Fred, 
to  think  of  that  little  supper.” 

While  the  Major  w’as  speaking,  his  servant,  with  a dexterity, 
the  fruit  of  long  habit,  had  garnished  the  table  with  the  con- 
tents of  our  baskets,  and  Monsoon,  apologizing  for  not  putting 
on  his  wig,  sat  down  among  us  with  a face  as  cheerful  as 
though  the  floor  was  not  covered  witli  the  charges  of  the  court- 
martial  to  be  rield  on  him. 

As  we  chatted  away  over  the  campaign  and  its  chances.  Mon- 
soon seemed  little  disposed  to  recur  to  his  own  fortunes.  In 
fact,  he  appeared  to  suffer  much  more  from  what  he  termed  my 
unlucky  predicament  than  from  his  own  mishaps.  At  the  same 
time,  as  the  evening  wore  on,  and  the  sherry  began  to  tell  upon 
him,  his  heart  expanded  into  its  habitual  moral  tendency,  and, 
by  an  easy  transition,  he  was  led  from  the  religious  association 
of  convents,  to  the  pleasure  of  pillaging  them. 

“ What  wine  they  have  in  their  old  cellars  ! It’s  such  fun 
drinking  it  out  of  great  silver  vessels  as  old  as  Methuselah. 
"'There’s  much  treasure  in  the  house  of  the  righteous,’  as  David 
says  ; and  any  one  who  has  ever  sacked  a nunnery  knows  that.” 

“I  should  like  to  have  seen  that  Prior  dancing  the  bolero,’* 
said  Power. 

“Wasn’t  it  good,  though!  he  grew  jealous  of  me,  fori  per- 
formed a hornpipe.  Very  good  fellow  the  Prior  ; not  like  the 
Alcade  ; there  was  no  fun  in  him.  J.ord  bless  him,  he'll  never 
forget  me.” 

“ What  did  you  do  with  him.  Major  ?” 


CII ABIES  a MALLET, 


141 


“ Well,  I’ll  tell  you  ; but  you  musu’t  let  it  be  known,  for  I see 
they  have  not  put  it  in  the  court-martial.  Is  there  no  more 
sherry  there?  There,  that  will  do;  I’m  always  contented. 
‘Better  a dry  morsel  with  quietness,’  as  Moses  says.  Ay, 
Charley,  and  never  forget — ‘ and  a merry  heart  is  just  like 
medicine.’  Job  found  that,  you  know.” 

“ AVell,  but  the  Alcade,  Major  ?” 

“ Oh,  the  Alcade,  to  be  sure  ; these  pious  meditations  make 
me  forget  earthly  matters,” 

“This  old  Alcade  at  Banos  I found  out  was  quite  spoiled  by 
Lord  Wellington ; he  used  to  read  all  the  general  orders,  and 
got  an  absurd  notion  in  his  head  that,  because  we  were  his 
allies,  we  were  not  allowed  to  plunder.  Only  think,  he  used  to 
snap  his  fingers  at  Beresford  ; didn’t  care  twopence  about  the 
legion  ; and  laughed  outright  at  Wilson  ; so  when  I was  ordered 
down  there,  I took  another  way  with  him  ; I waited  till  night- 
fall, ordered  two  squadrons  to  turn  their  jackets,  and  sent  for- 
ward two  of  my  aiis-de-camp  with  a few  troopers  to  the 
Alcade’s  house.  They  galloped  into  the  court-yard,  blowing 
trumpets  and  making  an  infernal  hubbub.  Down  came  the 
Alcade  in  a passion.  ‘ Prepare  quarters  quickly,  and  rations 
for  eight  hundred  men.’ 

“ ‘ Who  dares  to  issue  such  an  order?’  said  he. 

“ The  aid-de-camp  whispered  one  word  in  his  ear,  and  the  old 
fellow  grew  as  pale  as  death.  ‘ Is  he  here  ? — is  he  coming  : — is 
he  coming?’  said  he,  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

“ I rode  in  myself  at  this  moment,  looking  thus 

“ ‘ Oil  est  lemalheureux  f said  I in  French;  you  know  I speak 
French  like  Portuguese.” 

“ Devilish  like,  I’ve  no  doubt,”  muttered  Power. 

“‘Pardon,  gracias  excellent issimar  said  the  Alcade,  on  his 
knees.” 

“ Who  the  deuce  did  he  take  you  for.  Major?” 

“ You  shall  hear;  you’ll  never  guess,  though.  Lord!  I shall 
never  forget  it.  He  thought  I was  Marmont;  my  aid-de-camp 
told  him  so.” 

One  loud  burst  of  laughter  interrupted  the  Major  at  this  mo- 
ment, and  it  was  some  considerable  time  before  he  could  continue 
his  narrative. 

“And  do  you  really  mean,”  said  I,  “ that  you  personated  the 
Duke  de  Eagusa  ?” 

“ Did  I not  though?  If  you  only  had  seen  me  with  a pair  of 
great  mustaches,  and  a drawn  saber  in  my  hand,  pacing  the 
room  up  and  down  in  the  presence  of  the  assembled  authorities, 
Napoleon  himself  might  have  been  deceived.  My  first  order  was 
to  cut  off  all  their  heads;  but  I commuted  the  sentence  to  a 
heavy  fine.  Ah,  boys,  if  they  only  understood  at  headquarters 
how  to  carry  on  a war  in  the  Peninsula,  they’d  never  have  to 
grumble  in  England  about  increased  taxation.  How  I’d  mulct 
the  nunneries!  How  I’d  grind  the  corporate  towns!  How  I’d 
inundate  the  country  with  exchequer  bills!  I’d  sell  the  priors  at 
80  much  a head,  and  put  the  nuns  up  to  auction  by  the  dozen.” 


14^ 


CITABLE aAIALLEW 


You  sacrilegious  old  villain!  But  continue  the  account  of 
your  exploits.” 

“ Faith,  I remember  little  more.  After  dinner  I grew  some* 
what  mellow,  and  a kind  of  moral  bewilderment,  which  usually 
steals  over  me  about  eleven  o’clock,  induced  me  to  invite  the  Al- 
cade  and  all  the  Aldermen  to  come  and  sup.  Apparently,  we 
had  a merry  night  of  it,  and  when  morning  broke,  we  were  not 
quite  clear  in  our  intellects.  Hence  came  that  infernal  proces- 
sion; for  when  the  A.lcade  rode  round  the  town  with  a paper  cap, 
and  all  the  Aldermen  after  him,  the  inhabitants  felt  offended,  it 
seems,  and  sent  fora  large  guerrilla  force,  who  captured  me  and 
my  staff  after  a vigorous  resistance.  The  Alcade  fought  like  a 
trump  for  us,  for  I promised  to  make  him  Prefect  of  the  Seine; 
but  we  were  overpowered,  disarmed,  and  carried  off;  the  re- 
mainder you  can  read  in  the  court-martial;  for  you  may  think 
that  what,  after  sacking  the  town,  drinking  all  night,  and  fight- 
ing in  the  morning,  my  memory  was  none  of  the  clearest.” 

“ Did  you  not  explain  thad  you  were  not  the  Marshal,  Gen- 
eral ?” 

“No,  faith;  I knew  better  than  that;  they’d  have  murdered 
me,  had  they  known  theii>mistake.  They  brought  me  to  head- 
quarters in  the  hope  of  a great  reward,  and  it  was  only  when 
they  reached  this,  that  they  found  out  I was  not  the  Duke  de 
Ragusa;  so  you  see,  boys,  it’s  very  complicated  business.” 

“ Gad,  and  so  it  is,”  said  Power,  “and  an  awkward  one,  too.” 

“He’ll  be  hanged  as  sure  as  my  name’s  Dennis,”  vociferated 
O’Shaughnessy,  with  an  energy  that  made  the  Major  jump  from 
his  chair.  “ ftcton  will  hang  him!” 

“I’m  not  afraid,”  said  Monsoon;  “they  know  me  so  well. 
Lord  bless  you,  Beresford  couldn’t  get  on  without  me.” 

“ Well,  Major,”  said  I,  “ in  any  case  you  certainly  take  no 
gloomy  nor  desponding  view  of  your  case.” 

“ Not  I,  boy.  You  know  what  Jeremiah  says — ‘ A merry  heart 
is  a continual  feast;’  and  so  it  is.  I may  die  of  repletion,  but 
they’ll  never  find  me  starved  v/ith  sorrow.” 

“‘And,  faith,  it’s  a strange  thing,”  muttered  O’Shaughnessy, 
thinking  aloud;  “ a most  extraordinary  thing.  An  honest  fel- 
low would  be  sure  to  be  hanged;  and  there’s  that  old  rogue, 
that’s  been  melting  down  more  saints  and  blessed  virgins  than 
the  whole  army  togther,  he’ll  escape.  Ye’ll  see  he  will!” 

“ There  goes  the  patrol,”  said  Fred;  “ we  must  start.” 

“ Leave  the  sherry,  boys,  you'll  be  back  again.  I’ll  have  it 
put  up  carefully.” 

We  could  scarce  resist  a roar  of  laughter  as  we  said  “ Good- 
night.” 

“ Adieu,  Major,”  said  I;  “ we  shall  meet  anon.” 

So  saying,  I followed  Power  and  O’Shauglmessy  toward  their 
headquarters. 

“ Maurice  has  done  it  beautifully,”  said  O’Shaughnessy. 
“Pleasant  revelations  the  old  fellow  will  make  on  the  court- 
martial,  if  he  only  remembers  what  we  heard  to-night.  But 
here  we  are,  Charley;  so  good-night;  and  remember  you  break- 
fast with  me  to-morrow,” 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


143 


CHAPTER  XCV, 

THE  CONFID  ENCE. 

I HAVE  changed  the  venue,  Charley,”  said  Power,  as  he 
came  into  my  room  the  following  morning;  “ IVe^changed  the 
venue,  and  come  to  breakfast  with  you.” 

1 could  not  help  smiling,  as  a certain  suspicion  crossed  my 
mind;  perceiving  which  he  quickly  added: 

No,  no,  boy!  I guess  what  you’re  thinking  of;  Pm  not  a 
bit  jealous  in  that  quarter.  The  fact  is,  you  know  one  cannot 
be  too  guarded.” 

“ Nor  too  suspicious  of  one’s  friends,  apparently.” 

“ A truce  with  quizzing.  I say,  have  you  reported  yourself?” 

“Yes;  and  received  this  moment  a most  kind  note  from  the 
General.  But  it  appears  I’m  not  destined  to  have  a long  sojourn 
among  you,  for  I’m  desired  to  hold  myself  in  readiness  for  a 
journey  this  very  day.” 

“Where  the  deuce  are  they  going  to  send  you  now  ?” 

“ I’m  not  certain  of  my  destination.  I rather  suspect  there 
are  dispatches  for  Badajos.  Just  tell  Mike  to  get  breakfast,  and 
I’ll  join  you  immediately.” 

When  I walked  into  the  little  room  which  served  as  my  sa- 
loon, I found  Power  pacing  up  and  down,  apparently  wrapt  in 
meditation. 

“ I’ve  been  thinking,  Charley,”  said  he,  after  a pause  of  about 
ten  minutes — “Pve  been  thinking  over  our  adventures  in  Lis- 
bon. Devilish  strange  girl,  that  senora!  When  you  resigned  in 
my  favor,  I took  it  for  granted  that  all  difficulty  was  removed. 
Confound  it!  I no  sooner  began  to  profit  by  ;5mur  absence,  in 
pressing  my  suit,  than  she  turned  short  round,  treated  me  with 
marked  coldness,  exhibited  a hundred  willful  and  capricious  fan- 
cies, and  concluded  one  day  by  quietly  confessing  to  me — you 
were  the  only  man  she  cared  for.” 

“ You  are  not  serious  in  all  this,  Fred,”  said  I. 

“ Ain’t  I,  though,  by  Jove!  I wish  to  Heaven  I were  not!  My 
dear  Charley,  the  girl  is  an  inveterate  flirt — a decided  coquette. 
Whether  she  has  a particle  of  heart  or  not,  I can’t  say;  biit  cer- 
tainly her  greatest  pleasure  is  to  trifle  with  that  of  another. 
Some  absurd  suspicion  that  you  were  in  love  with  Lucy  Dash- 
wood  piqued  her  vanity,  and  the  anxiety  to  recover  a lapsing 
allegiance  led  her  to  suppose  herself  attached  to  you,  and  made 
her  treat  all  my  advances  with  a most  frigid  indifference,  or 
wayward  caprice,  the  more  provoking,”  continued  he,  with  a 
kind  of  bitterness  in  histone,  “as  her  father  was  disposed  to 
take  the  thing  favorably;  and,  if  I must  say  it,  I felt  devilish 
spooney  about  her  myself. 

“ It  was  only  two  days  before  I left,  that,  in  conversation  with 
Don  Emanuel,  he  consented  to  receive  my  addresses  to  his 
daughter  on  my  becoming  Lieutenant-colonel.  I hastened  back 
with  delight  to  bring  her  the  intelligence,  and  found  her  with  a 
lock  of  hair  on  the  book  before  her,  over  which  she  was  weeping. 
Confound  me  if  it  was  not  yours!  I don’t  know  what  I said^ 


144 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


nor  what  she  replied,  but  when  we  parted,  it  was  with  a perfect 
understanding  we  were  never  to  meet  again.  Strange  girl!  She 
came  that  evening,  put  her  arm  within  mine  as  I was  walking 
alone  in  the  garden,  and,  half  in  jest,  and  half  in  earnest,  talked 
me  out  of  all  my  suspicions,  and  left  me  fifty  times  more  in  love 
with  her  than  ever.  Egad!  I thought  I used  to  know  something 
about  women,  but  here  is  a chapter  I’ve  yet  to  read.  Come, 
now,  Charley,  be  frank  with  me;  tell  me  all  you  know.” 

“ My  poor  Fred!  If  you  were  not  head  and  ears  in  love,  you 
would  see  as  plainly  as  I do  that  your  affairs  prosper.  And  after 
all,  how  invariable  is  it,  that  the  man  who  has  been  the  very 
veriest  flirt  with  women — sighing,  serenading,  sonneteering, 
flinging  himself  at  the  feet  of  every  pretty  girl  he  meets  with, 
should  become  the  most  thorough  dupe  to  his  own  feelings  when 
his  heart  is  really  touched.  Your  man  of  eight-and-thirty  is 
always  the  greatest  fool  about  women.” 

“Confound  your  impudence!  How  the  devil  can  a fellow 
with  a mustache  not  stronger  than  a Circassian’s  eyebrow  read 
such  a lecture  to  me  ?” 

“Just  for  the  very  reason  you’ve  mentioned;  you  glide  into 
an  attachment  at  my  time  of  life;  jou  fall  in  love  at  yoiirsJ' 

“Yes,”  said  Povver  musingly,  “there  is  some  truth  in  that. 
This  flirting  is  sad  work.  It  is  just  like  sparring  with  a 
friend;  you  put  on  the  gloves  in  perfect  good  hum(>r,  with  the 
most  friendly  intentions  of  exchanging  a few  amicable  blows; 
you  find  yourself  invisibly  warm  with  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
conflict,  and  some  unlucky  hard  knock  decides  the  matter,  and 
it  ends  in  a downright  fight. 

“Few  men,  believe  me,  are  regular  seducers;  and,  among 
those  who  behave  ‘ vilely  ’ (as  they  call  it,)  three-fourths  of  the 
number  have  been  more  sinned  against  than  sinning.  You  ad- 
venture upon  love  as  upon  a voyage  to  India;  leaving  the  cold 
north  latitudes  of  first  acquaintance  behind  you,  you  gradually 
glide  into  the  warmer  and  more  genial  climate  of  intimacy. 
Each  day  you  travel  southward  shortens  the  miles  and  the  hours 
of  your  existence;  so  tranquil  is  the  passage,  and  so  easy  the 
transition,  you  suffer  no  shock  by  the  change  of  temperature 
about  you.  Happy  were  it  for  us,  that,  in  our  courtship  as  in 
our  voyage,  there  were  some  certain  Eubicon  to  remind  us  of 
the  miles  we  have  journeyed  ! Well  were  it,  if  there  were  some 
equinox  in  love  !” 

“ I’m  not,  sure,  Fred,  that  there  is  not  that  same  shaving  pro- 
cess they  practice  on  the  line  occasionally  performed  for  us  by 
parents  and  guardians  at  home;  and  I’m  not  certain  that  the 
iron  hoop  of  old  Neptune  is  not  a pleasanter  acquaintance  than 
the  hair-trigger  of  some  indignant  fire  eating  brother.  But 
come,  Fred,  you  liave  not  told  me  the  most  important  point.  How 
fare  your  fortunes  now  ? or,  in  other  words — what  are  your 
present  prospects  as  regards  the  senora  ?” 

“ Wliat  a question  to  ask  me!  why  not  request  me  to  tell  you 
w'here  Soult  will  fight  us  next,  and  w^henMarmont  will  cross  the 
frontier  ? My  dear  boy,  I have  not  seen  her  for  a week,  an  entire 


CHARLES  HMALLEY.  145 

week — seven  full  days  and  nights,  each  with  their  twenty-four 
hours  of  change  and  vacillation!” 

“Well,  then,  give  me  the  last  bulletin  from  the  seat  of  war; 
that,  at  least,  you  can  do;  tell  me  how  you  parted.” 

“ Strangely  enough.  You  must  know  we  had  a grand  dinner 
at  the  villa  the  day  before  I left,  and  when  we  adjourned  for 
our  coffee  to  the  garden  my  spirits  were  at  the  top  of  their  bent. 
Inez  never  looked  so  beautiful — never  was  one  half  so  gracious; 
and  as  she  leaned  upon  my  arm,  instead  of  following  the  others 
toward  the  summer-house,  I turned,  as  if  inadvertently,  into  a 
narrow  dark  alley  that  skirts  the  lake.” 

“I  know  it  well:  continue.” 

Power  reddened  slightly,  and  went  on: 

“ ‘Why  are  we  taking  this  path?’  said  Donna  Inez;  ‘this  is 
not  a short  way.’ 

“ ‘ Oh,  I — wished  to  make  my  adieus  to  my  old  friends,  the 
swans.  You  know  I go  to-morrow.’ 

“ ‘ Ah!  that’s  true,’  added  she;  ‘ I’d  quite  forgotten  it.’ 

“This  speech  was  not  very  encouraging;  but,  as  I felt  myself 
in  for  the  battle,  I was  not  going  to  retreat  at  the  skirmish. 
Now  or  never,  thought  I.  I’ll  not  tell  you  what  I said;  I couldn’t 
if  I would.  It  is  only  with  a pretty  woman  upon  one’s  arm — it 
is  only  when  stealing  a glance  at  her  bright  eyes  as  you  bend 
beyond  the  border  of  her  bonnet — that  you  know  what  it  is  to 
be  eloquent;  watching  the  changeful  color  of  her  cheek  with  a 
more  anxious  heart  than  ever  did  mariner  gaze  upon  the  fitful 
sky  above  him,  you  pour  out  your  whole  soul  in  love;  you  leave 
no  time  for  doubt,  you  leave  no  space  for  reply;  the  difficulties 
that  shoot  across  her  mind  you  reply  to  ere  she  is  well  conscious 
of  them;  and  when  you  feel  her  hand  tremble,  or  see  her  eyelid 
fall,  like  the  leader  of  a storming  party,  when  the  guns  slacken 
in  theii  fire,  you  spring  boldly  forward  in  the  breach,  and,  blind 
to  every  danger  around  you,  rush  madly  on,  and  plant  your 
standard  upon  the  walls.” 

“ I hope  you  allow  the  vanquished  the  honors  of  war,”  said  I, 
interrupting. 

Without  noticing  my  observation,  he  continued: 

“ I was  on  my  knee  before  her,  her  hand  passively  resting  in 
mine,  her  eyes  bent  upon  me  softly  and  tearfully ” 

“ The  game  was  your  own,  in  fact.” 

“You  shall  hear. 

“ ‘Have  we  stood  long  enough  thus,*’senor?’  said  she,  bursting 
into  a fit  of  laughter. 

“ I sprang  to  my  legs  in  anger  and  indignation. 

“ ‘ There,  don’t  be  ^ssionate;  it  is  so  tiresome.  What  do  you 
call  that  tree  there  ?’ 

“ ‘ It  is  a tulip  tree,’  said  I,  coldly. 

“ ‘ Then,  to  put  your  gallantry  to  the  test,  do  climb  up  there, 
and  pluck  me  that  flower.  No,  the  far  one.  If  you  fall  into 
the  lake  and  are  drowned,  why,  it  would  put  an  end  to  this  fool- 
ish interview.’ 

“ ‘ And  if  not?’  said  I. 

“ ‘ Oh,  then.  I shall  take  twelve  hours  to  consider  of  it;  and^ 


146  CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 

if  my  decision  hs  in  your  favor,  I’ll  give  you  the  flower  ere  you 
leave  tjo-morrow.' 

“ It’s  somewhat  about  thirty  years  since  I went  bird-nesting; 
and  hang  me  if  a tight  jacket  and  spurs  are  the  best  equipment 
for  climbing  a tree;  but  up  I went,  and  amid  a running  fire  of 
laughter  and  quizzing,  reached  the  branch  and  brought  it  down 
safely. 

“ Inez  took  especial  care  to  avoid  me  the  rest  of  the  evening; 
we  did  not  meet  until  breakfast  the  following  morning.  I per- 
ceived, then,  that  she  wore  the  fiower  in  her  belt;  but  alas!  I 
knew  her  too  well  to  augur  favorably  from  that;  beside  that,  in- 
stead of  any  trace  of  sorrow  or  depression  at  my  approaching 
departure,  she  was  in  high  spirits,  and  the  life  of  the  party. 

‘ How  can  I manage  to  speak  with  her?’  said  I to  myself;  ‘ but 
one  word — I already  anticipate  what  it  must  be;  but  let  the  blow 
fall — anything  is  better  than  this  uncertainty  V 

‘‘  ‘The  General  and  the  staff  have  passed  the  gate,  sir,’  said  my 
servant  at  this  moment.  . 

“ ‘ Are  my  horses  ready?’ 

“ ‘At  the  door,  sir;  and  the  baggage  gone  forward.’ 

“ I gave  Inez  one  look, 

“ ‘ Did  you  say  more  coffee  ?’  said  she,  smiling. 

“ I bowed  coldly,  and  rose  from  the  table.  They  all  assembled 
upon  the  terrace  to  see  me  ride  away. 

“ ‘ You’ll. let  us  hear  from  you,’  said  Don  Emanuel. 

“ ‘ And  pray  don’t  forget  the  letter  to  my  brother,’  cried  old 
Madame  For  j as. 

“ Twenty  similar  injunctions  burst  from  the  party,  but  not  a 
word  said  Inez. 

“ ‘ Adieu,  then!’  said  I.  ‘Farewell!’ 

“ ‘ Adios!  Go  with  God!’  chorused  the  party. 

“ ‘ Good-bye,  sen  ora,’  said  I.  ‘ Have  you  nothing  to  tell  me  ere 
we  part?’ 

“ ‘Not  that  I remember,’  said  she  carelessly.  ‘I  hope  you’ll 
have  good  weather.” 

“ ‘ There  is  a storm  threatening,’  said  I,  gloomily. 

“ ‘ Well,  a soldier  cares  little  for  a wet  jacket.’ 

“ ‘Adieu!’  said  I,  sharply,  darting  at  her  a look  that  spoke  my 
meaning. 

“ ‘ Farewell  ?’ repeated  she,  courtesying  slightly,  and  giving 
one  of  her  sweetest  smiles. 

“ I drove  the  spurs  into  my  horse’s  flanks,  but,  holding  him 
firmly  on  the  curb  at  the  same  moment,  instead  of  dashing  for- 
ward, he  bounded  madly  in  the  air. 

“ ‘What  a pretty  creature!’  said  she,  as  she  turned  toward  the 
house;  then,  stopping  carelessly,  she  looked  around. 

“ ‘ Should  you  like  this  bouquet?’ 

“Before  I could  reply,  she  disengaged  it  from  her  belt,  and 
threw  it  toward  me.  The  door  closed  behind  her  as  she  spoke; 
I galloped  on  to  overtakejthe  staff — etvoila  tout.  Now,  Cliarley, 
read  my  fate  for  me,  and  tell  what  this  portends.” 

“ I confess,  I only  see  one  thing  certain  in  the  whole.” 

“ And  that  is  ?”  said  Power, 


CHARLES  a M ALLEY. 


147 

That  Master  Fred  Power  is  more  irretrievably  in  love  than 
any  gentleman  on  full  pay  I ever  met  with.” 

“By  Jove!  I half  fear  as  much!  Is  that  orderly  waiting  for 
you,  Charley?  Who  do  you  want,  my  man?” 

“ Captain  O’Malley,  sir;  General  Crawford  desires  to  see  you 
at  headquarters  immediately.” 

“ Come,  Charley.*  I’m  going  toward  Fuentes.  Take  your  cap; 
we’ll  walk  down  together.” 

So  saying,  we  cantered  toward  the  village,  where  we  separated 
—Power  to  join  some  Fourteenth  men  stationed  there  on  duty; 
and  1 to  the  General’s  quarters  to  receive  my  orders. 


CHA.PTER  XCVI. 

THE  CANTONMENT. 

Soon  after  this  the  army  broke  up  from  Caja,  and  went  into 
cantonments  along  the  Tagus,  the  headquarters  being  at  Port- 
alegre;  we  were  here  joined  by  four  regiments  of  infantry  lately 
arrived  from  England,  and  the  Twelfth  Light  Dragoons.  I shall 
not  readily  forget  the  first  impressions  created  among  our  re-en- 
forcements by  the  habit  of  our  life  at  this  period. 

Brimful  of  expectation  they  had  landed  at  Lisbon,  their  minds 
filled  with  all  the  glorious  expectancy  of  a brilliant  campaign, 
sieges,  storming,  and  battle-fields  floated  before  their  excited  im- 
aginations. Scarcely,  however,  had  they  reached  camp  when 
these  illusions  were  dissipated.  Breakfasts,  dinners,  private 
theatricals,  pigeon  matches  formed,  our  daily  occupation. 
Lord  Wellington’s  hounds  threw  off  regularly  twice  a week, 
and  here  might  be  seen  every  imaginable  species  of  equip- 
ment, from  the  artillery  officer,  mounted  on  his  heavy  troop 
horse,  to  the  infantry  subaltern  on  a Spanish  jennet.  Never  was 
anything  more  ludicrous  than  our  turnout;  every  quadruped  in 
the  army  was  put  in  requisition ; and  even  those  who  rolled  not 
from  their  saddles  from  sheer  necessity,  were  most  likely  to  do 
so  from  laughing  at  their  neighbors.  The  pace  may  not  have 
equaled  Melton,  nor  the  fences  been  as  stubborn  as  in  Leices- 
tershire, but  I’ll  be  sworn  there  was  more  laughter,  more  fun, 
and  more  merriment  in  one  day  v/ithus  than  in  a whole  season 
with  the  best  organized  pack  in  England.  With  a lively  trust 
that  the  country  was  open,  and  the  leaps  easy,  every  man  took 
the  field;  indeed,  the  only  anxiety  evinced  at  all,  was  to  appear 
at  the  meeting  in  something  like  jockey  fashion,  and  I must 
confess  that  this  feeling  was  particularly  conspicuous  among 
the  infantry.  Happy  the  man  whose  kit  boasted  a pair  of  cords 
or  buckskins;  thrice  happy  he  who  sported  a pair  of  tops.  I 
myself  was  in  that  enviable  position,  and  well  remember  with 
what  pride  of  heart  I cantered  up  to  cover,  in  all  the  superior 
eclat  of  my  costume,  though,  if  truth  were  to  be  spoken,  I doubt 
if  I should  have  passed  muster  among  my  friends  of  the 
“ Blazers.”  A round  cavalry  jacket,  and  a foraging  cap,  with  a 
hanging  tassel,  were  the  strange  accompaniments  of  my  more 
befitting  nether  garments.  Whatever  our  costumes,  the  scene 
was  a most  animated  one.  Here  the  shell  jacket  ^of  a heavy 


148 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


dragoon  was  seen  storming  the  fence  of  a vineyard.  There  the 
dark  green  of  a rifleman  was  going  the  pace  over  the  plain.  The 
unsportsman-like  figure  of  a staff  officer  might  be  observed 
emerging  from  a drain,  while  some  neck-or-nothing  Irishman, 
with  light  infantry  wings,  was  flying  at  every  fence  before  him, 
and  overturning  all  in  Ms  way.  The  rules  and  regulations  of 
the  service  prevailed  not  here;  the  starred  and  gartered  general, 
the  plumed  and  aiguiletted  colonel  obtained  but  little  deference, 
and  less  mercy,  from  his  more  humble  subaltern.  In  fact,  I am 
half  disposed  to  think  that’many  an  old  grudge  of  rigid  discipline 
or  severe  duty  met  with  its  retribution  here.  More  than  once 
have  I heard  the  muttered  sentences  around  me  which  boded 
something  like  this: 

“ Go  the  pace,  Harry!  never  flinch  it!  There’s  old  Colquhoun 
— take  him  in  the  haunches — roll  him  over.” 

“ See  here,  boys — watch  how  I’ll  scatter  the  staff — beg  your 
pardon,  General,  hope  I haven’t  hurt  you.  Turn  about — fair 
play — I have  taught  you  to  take  up  a position  now.” 

I need  scarcely  say  there  was  one  whose  person  was  sacred 
from  all  such  attacks;  he  was  well  mounted  upon  a strong  half- 
bred  horse,  rode  always  foremost,  following  the  hounds  with 
the  same  steady  pertinacity  with  which  he  would  have  followed 
the  enemy;  his  compressed  lip  rarely  opening  for  a laugh,  when 
even  the  most  ludicrous  misadventure  was  enacting  before  him; 
and  when,  by  chance,  he  would  give  way,  the  short  ha!  ha!  was 
over  in  a moment,  and  the  cold,  stern  features  were  as  fixed  and 
impassive  as  before. 

All  the  excitement,  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a hunting-field, 
seemed  powerless  to  turn  his  mind  from  the  preoccupation  which 
the  mighty  interests  he  presided  over  exacted.  I remember 
once  an  incident  which,  however  trivial  in  itself,  is  worth  re- 
cording, as  illustrative  of  what  I mean.  We  were  going  along 
at  a topping  pace,  the  hounds,  a few  fields  in  advance,  were 
hidden  from  our  view  by  a small  beech  copse;  the  party  con- 
sisted of  not  more  than  six  persons,  one  of  whom  was  Lord 
Wellington  himself.  Our  run  had  been  a splendid  one,  and,  as 
we  were  pursuing  the  fox  to  earth,  every  men  of  us  pushed  his 
horse  to  his  full  stride  in  the  hot  enthusiasm  of  such  a moment. 

“This  way,  my  lord — this  way,”  said  Colonel  Conyers,  an  old 
Melton  man  who  led  the  way.  “ The  hounds  are  in  the  valley — 
keep  to  the  left.”  As  no  reply  was  made,  after  a few  moments’ 
pause,  Conyers  repeated  his  admonition.  “You  are  wrong,  my 
lord,  the  hounds  are  hunting  yonder.” 

“ I know  it!”  was  the  brief  answer  given,  with  a shortness  that 
almost  savored  of  asperity;  for  a second  or  two  not  a v'ord  was 
spoken. 

“ How  far  is  Niza,  Gordon  ?”  inquired  Lord  Wellington.  ^ 

“ About  five  leagues,  my  lord,”  replied  the  astonished  aid-de- 
camp. 

“ That’s  the  direction,  is  it  not?” 

“Yes,  my  lord.”' 

“ Let’s  go  over  and  inspect  the  wounded.” 

No  more  was  said,  and  before  a second  was  given  for  consider 


CHARLES  HMALLEY, 


149 


ation,  away  went  his  lordship,  followed  by  his  aid-de-camp;  his 
pace  the  same  stretching  gallop,  and  apparently  feeling  as 
much  excitement,  as  he  dashed  onward  toward  the  hospital,  as 
though  following  in  all  the  headlong  enthusiasm  of  a fox-chase. 

Thus  passed  our  summer;  a life  of  happy  ease  and  recreation 
succeeding  to  the  harassing  fatigues  and  severe  privations  of 
the  preceding  campaign.  Sucti  are  the  lights  and  shadows  of  a 
soldier’s  life;  such  the  checkered  surface  of  his  fortunes — consti- 
tuting, by  their  very  change,  the  buoyant  temperament,  that 
happy  indifference  which  enables  him  to  derive  its  full  enjoyment 
from  each  passing  incident  of  his  career. 

While  thus  we  indulged  in  all  the  fascinations  of  a life  of 
pleasure,  the  rigid  discipline  of  the  army  was  never  forgotten; 
reviews,  parades,  and  inspections  were  of  daily  occurrence;  and 
even  a superficial  observer  could  not  fail  to  detect  that,  under 
this  apparent  devotion  to  amusement  and  enjoyment,  our  Com- 
mander-in-Chief  concealed  a deep  stroke  of  his  policy. 

The  spirits  of  both  men  and  officers,  broken,  in  spite  of  their 
successes,  by  the  incessant  privations  they  had  endured,  im- 
peratively demanded  this  period  of  repose.  The  infantry,  many 
of  whom  had  served  in  the  ill  fated  campaign  of  Walcheren, 
were  still  suffering  from  the  effects  of  the  intermittent  fever. 
The  cavalry,  from  deficient  forage,  severe  marches,  and  unre- 
mitting ^fervice,  were  in  great  part  unfit  for  duty.  To  take  the 
field  under  circumstances  like  these  was  therefore  impossible; 
and,  with  the  double  object  of  restoring  their  wonted  spirits  to 
the  troops,  and  checking  the  ravages  which  sickness  and  the 
casualties  of  war  had  made  within  his  ranks.  Lord  Wellington 
embraced  the  opportunity  of  the  enemy’s  inaction  to  take  up  his 
present  position  on  the  Tagus. 

Meanwhile,  that  we  enjoyed  all  the  pleasures  of  a country  life, 
enhanced  tenfold  by  daily  associations  with  the  gay  and  cheer- 
ful companions,  the  master  mind,  whose  reach  extended  from 
the  profoundest  calculations  of  strategy  to  the  minutest  details 
of  military  organization,  was  never  idle.  Foreseeing  that  a 
period  of  inaction,  like  the  present,  must  only  be  like  the  solemn 
calm  that  precedes  the  storm,  he  prepared  for  the  future  by 
those  bold  conceptions  and  unrivaled  combinations  which  were 
to  guide  him  through  many  a field  of  battle  and  of  danger  to 
end  his  careiir  of  glory  in  the  liberation  of  the  Peninsula. 

The  failure  of  the  attack  upon  Badajos  had  neither  damped  his 
ardor  nor  changed  his  views;  and  he  proceeded  to  the  invest- 
ment of  Ciudad  Rodrigo  with  the  same  intense  determina- 
tion of  uprooting  the  French  occupation  in  Spain,  by  destroying 
their  strongholds  and  cutting  off  their  resources.  Carrying  ag- 
gressive war  in  one  hand,  he  turned  the  other  toward  the  main- 
tenance of  those  defenses,  which,  in  the  event  of  disaster  or 
defeat  must  prove  the  refuge  of  the  army. 

To  the  lines  of  Torres  Vedras  he  once  more  directed  his  atten- 
tion, Engineer  officers  were  dispatc^hed  thither,  the  fortresses 
were  put  into  repair,  the  bridges  broken  or  injured  during  the 
French  invasion  were  restored,  the  batteries  upon  the  Tagus  were 

" k 


150  OflARLES  O^MALIEY. 

rendered  more  effective,  and  furnaces  for  heating  shot  were 
added  to  them. 

The  inactivity  and  apathy  of  the  Portuguese  government  but 
ill  corresponded  with  his  un  wearied  exertions;  and  despite  of  con- 
tinual remonstrances  and  unceasing  representations,  the  bridges 
over  the  Leira  and  Alva  were  left  unrepaired,  and  the  roads 
leading  to  them  so  broken  as  to  be  almost  impassable,  might 
seriously  have  endangered  the  retreat  of  the  army,  should  such 
a movement  be  deemed  necessary. 

It  was  in  the  first  week  in  September  I was  sent  with  dis  - 
patches for  the  engineer  officers  in  command  of  the  lines,  and 
during  the  fortnight  of  my  absence,  was  enabled  for  the  first 
time  to  examine  those  extraordinary  defenses  which,  for  the  space 
of  thirty  miles,  extended  over  a country  undulating  in  hill  and 
valley,  and  presenting,  by  a succession  of  natural  and  artificial 
resources,  the  strongest  and  most  impregrable  barrier  that  has 
ever  been  presented  against  the  advance  of  a conquering  army. 


CHAPTER  XCVIT. 

MICKEY  free’s  ADVENTURE. 

When  I returned  to  the  camp,  I found  the  greatest  excitement 
prevailing  on  all  sides.  Each  day  brought  in  fresh  rumors  that 
Marmont  was  advancing  in  force;  that  sixty  thousand  French- 
men were  in  full  march  upon  Ciudad  Rodrigo,  to  raise  the  block- 
ade, and  renew  the  invasion  of  Portugal.  Intercepted  letters 
corroborated  these  reports;  and  the  guerrillas  who  joined  us 
spoke  of  large  convoys  which  they  had  seen  upon  the  roads  from 
Salamanca  and  Tamanes. 

Except  the  light  division,  which,  under  the  command  of  Craw- 
ford, were  posted  nipon  the  right  of  the  Aguada,  the  whole  of 
our  army  occupied  the  country  from  El  Bodon  to  Gallegos;  the 
fourth  division  being  stationed  at  Fuente  Guenaldo,  where  some 
intrench menls  had  been  hastily  thrown  up. 

To  this  position  Lord  Wellington  resolved  upon  retreating,  as 
affording  points  of  greater  strength  and  more  capability  of  de- 
fense than  the  other  line  of  road,  which  led  to  Almeida  upon  the 
Coa.  Of  the  enemy’s  intentions  we  were  not  long  to  remain  in 
doubt;  for,  on  the  morning  of  the  24th  a strong  body  were  seen 
descending  from  the  pass  above  Ciudad  Rodrigo,  and  cautiously 
reGonnoitering  the  banks  of  the  Aguada.  Far  in  the  distance  a 
countless  train  of  wagons,  bullock-cars,  and  loaded  mules  were 
seen  winding  their  slow  length  along,  accompanied  by  several 
squadrons  of  dragoons. 

Their  progress  was  slow,  but,  as  evening  fell,  they  entered  the 
gates  of  the  fortress,  and  the  cheering  of  the  garrison  mixing 
with  the  strains  of  martial  music,  faint  from  distance,  reached 
us  where  we  lay  upon  the  far  off  heights  of  El  Bodon.  So  long 
as  the  light  lasted,  we  could  perceive  fresh  troops  arriving;  and 
even  when  the  darkness  came  on,  we  could  detect  the  position 
of  the  re-inforcing  columns  by  the  bright  watch  fires  that  gleamed 
along  the  plain. 

By  daybreak  we  were  under  arms,  anxiously  watching  for 


CHARLES  O^M  ALLEY. 


151 


the  intentions  of  the  enemy,  which  soon  became  no  longer  du- 
bious. Twenty-five  squadrons  of  cavalry,  supported  by  a whole 
division  of  infantry,  were  seen  to  defile  along  the  great  road  from 
Ciudad  Rodrigo  to  Guenaldo.  Another  column  equally  numer- 
ous marched  straight  upon  Espeja;  nothing  could  be  more  beau- 
tiful, nothing  more  martial  than  their  appearance;  emerging 
from  a close  mountain-gorge,  they  wound  along  the  narrow 
road,  and  appeared  upon  the  bridge  of  tlie  Aguada,  just  as  the 
morning  sun  was  bursting  forth;  his  bright  beams  tipxjing  the  pol 
ished  cuirasses  and  their  glittering  equipments, they  slione  in  their 
panoply  like  the  gay  troop  of  some  ancient  tournament.  The 
lancers  of  Berg,  distinguished  by  their  scarlet  dolmans  and  gor- 
geous trappings,  were  followed  by  the  cuirassiers  of  the  guard, 
who  again  were  succeeded  by  the  chasseur  au  clieval,  their  bright 
steel  helmets  and  light  blue  uniforms,  their  floating  plumes  and 
dappled  chargers,  looking  the  very  heau  ideal  of  light  horsemen; 
behind,  the  dark  masses  of  the  infantry  pressed  forward,  and 
deployed  into  the  plain;  while  bringing  up  the  rear,  the  rolling 
din,  like  distant  thunder,  announced  the  ‘‘  dread  aiiillery.’’ 

On  they  came,  the  seemingly  interminable  line  converging  on 
to  that  one  spot  upon  whose  summit  now  we  assembled,  a force 
of  scarcely  ten  thousand  bayonets. 

While  this  brilliant  panorama  was  passing  before  our  eyes, 
we  ourselves  were  not  idle.  Orders  had  been  sent  to  Picton  to 
come  up  from  the  left  with  his  division.  Alton’s  cavalry,  and  a 
brigade  of  artillery  was  sent  to  the  front,  and  every  preparation 
which  the  nature  of  the  ground  admitted,  was  made  to  resist  the 
advance  of  the  enemy.  While  these  movements  on  either  side 
occupied  some  hours,  the  scene  was  every  moment  increasing  in 
interest.  The  large  body  of  cavalry  was  now  seen  forming  into 
columns  of  attack.  Nine  battalions  of  infantry  moved  up  to 
their  support,  and  forming  into  columns,  echellons,  and  squares, 
performed  before  us  all  the  maneuvers  of  a review  with  the 
most  admirable  precision  and  rapidity;  but  from  these  our  at- 
tention was  soon  taken  })y  a brilliant  display  on  our  left.  Here, 
emerging  from  the  wood  which  flanked  the  Aguada,  were  now 
to  be  seen  the  gorgeous  staff  of  Marmont  himself.  Advancing 
at  a walk,  they  came  forward  amid  the  vivas  of  the  assembled 
thousands  burning  with  ardor  and  thirsting  for  victory.  For  a 
moment,  as  Hooked,  I could  detect  the  Marshal  himself,  as, 
holding  his  plumed  hat  above  his  head,  he  returned  the  sa- 
lute of  a lancer  regiment  who  proudly  waved  their  banners  as 
he  passed;  but  hark!  what  are  those  clanging  sounds,  which, 
rising  high  above  the  rest,  seem  like  the  war-cry  of  a warrior  ? 

“ I can’t  mistake  those  tones,”  said  a bronzed  old  veteran  be- 
side me.  “Those  are  the  brass  bands  of  the  imperial  guard. 
Can  Napoleon  be  there?  see!  there  they  come.”  As  he  spoke  the 
head  of  a column  emerged  from  the  wood,  and  deplo}  ing  as 
they  came,  poured  into  the  plain.  For  above  an  hour  that 
mighty  tide  flowed  on,  and  before  noon,  a force  of  sixty  thou- 
sand men  were  collected  in  the  space  beneath  us. 

I was  not  long  to  remain  an  unoccupied  spectator  of  this  bril- 
liant display ; for  I soon  received  orders  to  move  down  with  my 


152 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


squadron  to  the  support  of  the  Eleventh  light  dragoons,  who 
were  posted  at  the  base  of  the  hill.  The  order  at  the  moment 
was  anything  but  agreeable,  for  I was  mounted  upon  a hack 
pony,  on  which  I had  ridden  over  from  Crawford’s  division 
early  in  the  morning,  and,  suspecting  there  might  be  some  hot 
work  during  the  day,  had  ordered  Mike  to  follow  with  my 
horse.  There  was  no  time,  however,  for  hesitation,  and  I moved 
my  men  down  the  slope  in  the  direction  of  the  skirmishers. 

The  position  we  occupied  was  singularly  favorable;  our  flanks 
defended  on  either  side  by  brushwood,  we  could  only  be  assailed 
in  front;  and  here,  notwithstanding  our  vast  inferiority  of  force, 
we  steadily  awaited  the  attack.  As  I rode  from  out  the  thick 
wood  I could  not  help  feeling  surprised  at  the  sounds  which 
greeted  me.  Instead  of  the  usual  low  and  murmuring  tones — 
the  muttered  sentences  which  precede  a cavalry  advance — a roar 
of  laughter  shook  the  entire  division,  while  exclamations  burst 
from  every  side  around  me:  “ Look  at  him  now!”  ‘‘  They  have 
him — by  heavens,  they  have  him!”  “Well  done — well  done!” 
“How "the  fellow  rides!”  “He’s  hit — he’s  hit!”  “No!  no!” 
“ Is  he  down?”  “ He’s  down!” 

A loud  cheer  rent  the  air  at  this  moment,  and  I reached  the 
front  m time  to  learn  the  reason  of  all  this  excitement.  In  the 
wide  plain  before  me  a horseman  was  seen,  having  passed  the 
ford  of  the  Aguada,  to  advance  at  the  top  of  his  speed  toward 
the  British  lines.  As  he  came  nearer,  it  was  perceived  that  he 
was  accompanied  by  a led  horse,  and,  apparently  with  a total 
disregard  of  the  presence  of  an  enemy,  rode  boldly  and  careless- 
ly forward;  behind  rode  three  lancers,  their  lances  couched, 
their  horses  at  full  speed;  the  pace  was  tremendous,  and  the  ex- 
citement intense;  for  sometimes,  as  the  leading  horseman  of  the 
pursuit  neared  the  fugitive,  he  would  bend  suddenly  upon  his 
saddle,  and  swerving  to  the  right  or  left,  totally  evade  him,  while 
again,  at  others,  with  a loud  cry  of  bold  defiance,  rising  in  his 
stirrups,  he  would  press  on,  and,  with  a shake  of  his  bridle  that 
bespoice  the  jockey,  almost  distance  the  enemy. 

“ That  must  be  your  fellow,  O’Malley;  that  must  be  your  Irish 
groom,”  cried  a brother  officer.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  it. 
It  was  Mike  himself. 

“ I’ll  be  hanged  if  he’s  not  playing  with  them,”  said  Baker. 
“Look  at  the  villain!  He’s  holding  in;  that’s  more  than  the 
Frenchmen  are  doing.  Look,  look  at  the  fellow  on  the  gray 
horse;  he  has  flung  his  trumpet  to  his  back  and  drawn  his 
saber.” 

A loud  cheer  burst  from  the  French  lines;  the  trumpeter  was 
gaining  at  every  stride.  Mike  had  got  into  deep  ground,  and  the 
horses  would  not  keep  together.  “Let  the  brown  horse  go!  let 
him  go,  man!”  shouted  the  dragoons,  while  I re-echoed  the  cry 
with  my  utmost  might.  But  not  so;  Mike  held  firmly  on,  and, 
spurring  madly,  he  lifted  his  horse  at  each  stride;  turning,  from 
time  to  time,  a glance  at  his  pursuer.  A shout  of  triumph  rose 
from  the  French  side;  the  trumpeter  was  beside  him;  his  arm 
was  uplifted;  the  saber  above  his  head.  A yell  broke  forth  from 
the  British,  and  with  difficulty  could  the  squadron  be  restrained. 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


153 


For  above  a minute  the  horses  went  side  by  side,  but  the  French- 
man delayed  his  stroke  until  he  could  get  a little  in  the  front. 
My  excitement  had  rendered  me  speechless;  if  a word  could 
have  saved  my  poor  fellow,  I could  not  have  spoken.  A mist 
seemed  to  gather  across  my  eyes,  and  the  whole  plain  and  its 
peopled  thousands  danced  before  my  eyes. 

“He’s  down!”  “He’s  down,  by  heavens!”  “No!  no!  no!” 
“ Look  there— nobly  done!”  “ Gallant  fellow!’  “ He  has  him! 

he  has  him,  by ” A cheer  that  rent  the  very  air  above 

us  broke  from  the  squadrons,  and  Mike  galloped  in  among  us, 
holding  the  Frenchman  by  the  throat  with  one  hand;  the  bridle 
of  his  horse  he  firmly  grasped  with  his  own  in  the  other. 

“ How  was  it  ? How  did  he  do  it  ?”  cried  I. 

“ He  broke  his  sword-arm  with  a blow,  and  the  Frenchman’s 
saber  fell  to  the  earth.” 

“ Here  he  is,  Misther  Charley;  and  mush  a,  but  it’s  trouble  he 
gave  me  to  catch  him!  and  I hope  your  honor  won’t  be  displeased 
at  me  losing  the  brown  horse.  I was  obliged  to  let  him  go  when 
the  thief  closed  on  me;  but  sure  there  he  is;  may  I never  — ! 
if  he’s  not  galloping  into  the  lines  by  himself.”  As  he  spoke,  ray 
brown  charger  came  cantering  up  to  the  squadrons,  and  took  his 
place  in  the  line  with  the  rest. 

I had  scarcely  time  to  mount  my  horse,  amid  a buzz  of  con- 
gratulations, when  our  squadron  was  ordered  to  the  front. 
Mixed  up  with  detachments  from  the  Eleventh  and  Sixteenth, 
we  continued  to  resist  the  enemy  for  above  two  hours. 

Our  charges  were  quick,  sharp,  and  successive,  pouring  in  our 
numbers  wherever  the  enemy  appeared  for  a moment  to  be 
broken,  and  then  retreating  under  cover  of  our  infantry,  when 
the  opposing  cavalry  came  down  upon  us  in  overwhelming 
numbers. 

Nothing  could  be  more  perfect  than  the  manner  in  which  the 
different  troops  relieved  each  other  during  this  part  of  the  day. 
When  the  French  squadrons  advanced,  ours  met  them  as  boldly. 
When  the  ground  became  no  longer  tenable  we  broke  and 
fell  back,  and  the  bayonets  of  the  infantry  arrested  their  prog- 
ress. If  the  cavalry  pressed  heavily  upon  the  squares,  ours 
came  up  to  the  relief,  and  as  they  were  beaten  back,  the  artillery 
opened  upon  them  with  an  avalanche  of  grape-shot. 

I have  seen  many  battles  of  greater  duration,  and  more  im- 
portant in  result — many  have  there  been  in  which  more  tactic 
was  displayed,  and  greater  combinations  called  forth;  but  never 
did  I witness  a more  desperate  hand-to-hand  conflict  than  on 
the  heights  of  El  Bodon. 

Baffled  by  our  resistance,  Montbrun  advanced  with  the  cuiras- 
siers of  the  guard.  Riding  down  our  advanced  squadrons,  they 
poured  upon  us  like  some  mighty  river  overwhelming  all  before 
it,  and  charged,  cheering,  up  the  heights.  Our  brave  troopers  were 
thrown  back  upon  the  artillery,  and  many  of  them  cut  down  be- 
side the  guns.  The  artillerymen  and  the  drivers  shared  the  same 
fate,  and  the  cannon  were  captured.  A cheer  of  exultation  burst 
from  the  French,  and  their  vivas  rent  the  air.  Their  exultation 
was  short-lived,  and  that  cheer  their  death-cry;  for  the  Fifth  foot, 


154 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


who  had  hitherto  lain  concealed  in  the  grass,  sprang  madly  to 
their  feet,  their  gallant  Major  Ridge  at  their  head.  With  a 
yell  of  vengeance  they  rushed  upon  the  foe;  the  glistening 
bayonets  glanced  amid  the  cavalry  of  the  French;  the  troops 
pressed  hotly  home;  and  while  the  cuirassiers  were  driven  down 
the  hill,  the  guns  were  recaptured,  limbered  up,  and  brought 
away.  This  brilliant  charge  was  the  first  recorded  instance  of 
cavalry  being  assailed  by  infantry  in  line. 

But  the  hill  could  no  longer  be  held;  the  French  were  advanc- 
ing on  either  fiank;  overwhelming  numbers  pressed  upon  the 
front,  and  retreat  was  unavoidable.  The  cavalry  were  ordered 
to  the  rear,  and  Picton’s  division,  throwing  themselves  into 
squares,  covered  the  retreating  movement. 

The  French  dragoons  bore  down  upon  every  face  of  those  de- 
voted battalions;  the  shouts  of  triumph  cheered  them  as  the 
earth  trembled  beneath  their  charge;  but  the  British  infantry, 
reserving  their  fire  until  the  sabers  clanked  with  the  bayonet, 
poured  in  a shattering  volley,  and  the  cry  of  the  wounded  and 
the  groans  of  the  dying  rose  from  the  smoke  around  them. 

Again  and  again  the  French  came  on:  and  the  same  fate  ever 
waited  them;  the  only  movement  in  the  British  squares  was 
closing  up  the  spaces  as  their  comrades  fell  or  sank  wounded  to 
the  earth. 

At  last  re-enforcements  came  up  from  the  left;  the  whole  re- 
treated across  the  plain,  until,  as  they  approached  Guenaldo,  our 
cavalry  having  re-formed,  came  to  their  aid  with  one  crushing 
charge,  which  closed  the  day. 

That  same  night  Lord  Wellington  fell  back,  and,  concentrat- 
ing his  troops  within  a narrow  loop  of  land,  bounded  on  either 
flank  by  the  Coa,  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  light  division,  which 
joined  us  at  three  in  the  morning. 

The  following  day  Marmont  again  made  a demonstmtion  of 
his  force,  but  no  attack  followed;  the  position  was  too  for- 
midable to  be  easily  assailed,  and  the  experience  of  the  preced- 
ing day  had  taught  him,  that,  however  inferior  in  numbers,  the 
troops  he  was  opposed  to  were  as  valiant  as  they  were  ably  com- 
manded. 

Soon  after  this  Marmont  retired  on  the  valley  of  the  Tagus. 
Dorsenne  also  fell  back,  and,  for  the  present,  at  least,  no  further 
effort  was  made  to  prosecute  the  invasion  of  Portugal. 


CHAPTER  XCVIII. 

THE  SAN  PETRO. 

‘‘  Not  badly  wounded,  O’Malley,  I hope  ?”  said  General  Craw- 
ford, as  I waited  upon  him,  soon  after  the  action. 

I could  not  help  starting  at  the  question,  while  he  repeated 
it,  pointing  at  the  same  time  to  my  left  shoulder,  from  which 
a stream  of  blood  was  now  flowing  down  my  coat-sleeve. 

“I  never  noticed  it,  sir,  till  this  moment;  it  can’t  be  of  much 
consequence,  for  I have  been  on  horseback  the  entire  day,  and 
never  felt  it.” 

“ Look  to  it  at  once,  boy,  a man  wants  all  his  blood  for  this 


CHARLES  a 31  ALLEY. 


155 


cam^jaign.  Go  to  your  quarters,  I shall  not  need  you  for  the 
present,  so  pray  see  the  Doctor  at  once/’ 

As  I left  the  Ggneral’s  quarters  I began  to  feel  sensible  of  pain, 
and,  before  a quarter  of  an  hour  had  elapsed,  had  quite  con- 
vinced myself  that  my  'Vound  was  a severe  one.  The  hand  and 
arm  were  swollen,  heavy,  and  distended  with  hemorrhage  be- 
neath the  skin;  my  thirst  became  great,  and  a cold  shuddering 
sensation  passed  over  me  from  time  to  time. 

I sat  down  for  a moment  upon  the  grass,  and  was  just  reflect- 
ing within  myself  what  course  I should  pursue,  when  I heard 
the  tramp  of  feet  approaching.  I looked  up,  and  perceived  some 
soldiers  in  fatigue  dresses  followed  by  a few  others,  who,  from 
their  noiseless  gestures  and  sad  countenances,  I guessed  were 
carrying  some  wounded  comrade  to  the  rear. 

“ Who  is  it,  boys  ?”  cried  L 

“ It’s  the  Major,  sir;  the  Lord  be  good  to  him!”  said  a hardy- 
looking Eighty- eighth  man,  wiping  hii?  eyes  with  the  cuff  of  his 
coat  as  he  spoke. 

“ Not  your  Major?  not  Major  O’Shaughnessy  ?”  said  I,  jump- 
ing up,  and  rushing  toward  the  litter.  Alas!  too  true,  it  was 
the  gallant  fellow  himself;  there  he  lay,  pale  and  cold;  his 
bloodless  cheek  and  parted  lips  looking  like  death  itself.  A thin 
blue  rivulet  trickled  down  his  forehead,  but  his  most  serious 
wound  appeared  to  be  in  the  side,  his  coat  was  open,  and 
showed  a mass  of  congealed  and  clotted  blood  from  the 
midst  of  which,  with  every  motion  of  the  way  a fresh  stream 
kept  welling  upward.  Whether  from  the  shock,  or  my  loss  of 
blood,  or  from  both  together,  I know  not,  but  I sank  fainting  to 
the  ground. 

It  would  have  needed  a clearer  brain  and  a cooler  judgment 
than  I possessed,  to  have  conjectured  where  I was,  and  what 
had  occurred  to  me  when  I next  recovered  my  senses.  Weak, 
fevered,  and  with  a burning  thirst,  I lay,  unable  to  move,  and 
could  merely  perceive  the  objects  which  lay  wdthin  the 
immediate  reach  of  my  vision.  The  place  was  cold,  calm,  and 
still  as  the  grave.  A lamp  which  hung  high  above  my  head, 
threw  a faint  light  aiound,  and  showed  me,  within  a niche  of 
the  opposite*  wall,  the  figure  of  a gorgeously  dressed  female; 
she  appeared  to  be  standing  motionless,  but,  as  the  pale  light 
flickered  upon  her  features,  I thought  I could  detect  the  semb- 
lance of  a smile.  The  splendor  of  her  costume,  and  the  glitter- 
ing gems  which  shone  upon  her  spotless  robe,  gleamed  through 
the  darkness  with  an  almost  supernatural  brilliancy,  an*d  so 
beautiful  did  she  look,  so  calm  her  pale  features,  that,  as  I 
opened  and  shut  my  eyes  and  rubbed  my  lids,  I scarcely  dared 
to  trust  my  erring  senses,  and  believe  it  could  be  real.  What 
could  it  mean  ? Whence  this  silence — this  cold  sense  of  awe  and 
reverence;  was  it  a dream  ? was  it  the  fitful  visions  of  a dis- 
ordered intellect  ? Could  it  be  death  ? My  eyes  were  riveted 
upon  that  beautiful  figure.  1 essayed  to  speak,  but  could  not; 
I would  have  beckoned  her  toward  me,  but  my  hands  refused 
their  office.  I felt  I know  not  what  charm  she  possessed  to  calm 
my  throbbing  bram  and  burning  heart;  but,  as  I turned  from 


156 


CHARLES  a M ALLEY. 


the  gloom  and  darkness  around  to  gaze  upon  her  fair  brow  and 
unmoved  features,  I felt  like  the  prisoner  who  turns  from  the 
cheerless  desolation  of  his  cell,  and  looks  u^on  the  fair  world 
and  smiling  valleys  lying  sunlit  and  shadowed  before  him. 

Sleep  at  length  came  over  me;  and  when  I awoke,  the  day 
seemed  breaking,  for  a fair  gray  tint  stole  through  a stained 
glass  window,  and  fell  in  many-colored  patches  upon  the  pave- 
ment. A low  muttering  sound  attracted  me;  I listened — it  was 
Mike’s  voice.  With  difficulty  raising  myself  upon  one  arm,  I 
endeavored  to  see  more  around  me.  Scarcely  had  I assumed 
this  position,  when  my  eyes  once  more  fell  upon  the  white-clad 
figure  of  the  preceding  night.  At  her  feet  knelt  Mike,  his  hands 
clasped,  and  his  head  bowed  upon  his  bosom.  Shall  I confess 
my  surprise— my  disappointment!  It  was  no  other  than  an 
image  of  the  blessed  Virgin,  decked  out  in  all  the  gorgeous 
splendor  which  Catholic  piety  bestows  upon  her  saints.  The 
features,  which  the  imperfect  light  and  my  more  imperfect  fac- 
ulties had  endowed  with  an  expression  of  calm,  angelic  beauty, 
were  to  my  waking  senses  but  the  cold  and  barren  mockery  of 
loveliness;  the  eyes,  which  my  excited  brain  gifted  with  looks 
of  tenderness  and  pity,  stared  with  no  speculation  in  them;  yet, 
contrasting  my  feelings  of  the  night  before,  full  as  they  were 
of  their  deceptions,  with  my  now  waking  thoughts,  I longed 
once  more  for  that  delusion  which  threw  a dreamy  pleasure 
over  me,  and  subdued  the  stormy  passions  of  my  soul  into  rest 
and  repose. 

“ Who  knows,”  thought  I,  “ but  he  who  kneels  yonder  feels 
now  as  I did  then  ? Who  can  tell  how  little  the  cold,  unmeaning 
reality  before  him  resembles  the  spiritualized  creation  the  fervor 
of  his  love  and  the  ardor  of  his  devotion  may  have  placed  upon 
that  altar  ? Who  can  limit  or  bound  the  depth  of  that  adoration 
for  an  object  whose  attributes  appeal  not  only  to  every  senti- 
ment of  the  heart,  but  also  to  every  sense  of  the  brain  ? I fancy 
that  I can  picture  to  myself  how  these  tinseled  relics,  these 
tasteless  wax-works,  changed  by  the  magic  of  devotion  and 
of  dread,  become  to  the  humble  worshiper  images  of^loveliness 
and  beauty.  The  dim  religious  light;  the  reverberating  footsteps 
echoed  along  those  solemn  aisles;  the  vaulted  arches,  into  whose 
misty  heights  the  sacred  incense  floats  upward,  while  the  deep 
organ  is  pealing  its  notes  of  praise  or  prayer;  these  are  no  slight 
accessories  to  all  the  pomp  and  grandeur  of  a church,  whose 
forms  and  ceremonial,  unchanged  for  ages,  and  hallowed  by  a 
thousand  associations,  appeal  to  the  mind  of  the  humblest  peas- 
ant or  the  proudest  noble,  by  all  the  weaknesses  as  by  all  the 
more  favored  features  of  our  nature.” 

How  long  I might  have  continued  to  meditate  in  this  strain  I 
know  not,  when  a muttered  observation  from  Mike  turned  the 
whole  current  of  my  thoughts.  His  devotion  over,  he  seated 
himself  upon  the  steps  of  the  altar,  and  appeared  to  be  resolving 
some  doubts  within  himself  concerning  his  late  pious  duty. 

“Masses  is  dearer  here  than  in  Galway.  Father  Eush  would 
be  well  pleased  at  two  and  sixpence  for  what  I paid  three  doub- 
loons for  this  morning.  And  sure  it’s  droll  enough.  How  ex- 


CHARLES  CM  ALLEY. 


io7 

pensive  an  amusement  it  is  to  kill  the  French.  Here’s  half  a 
dollar  1 gave  for  the  soul  of  a cuirassier  that  I kilt  yesterday, 
and  nearly  twice  as  much  for  an  artilleryman  I cut  down  at  the 
guns;  and  because  the  villain  swore  like  a hey  then,  Father  Pedro 
told  me  he’d  cost  more  nor  if  he  died  like  a decent  man.” 

At  these  words  he  turned  suddenly  round  toward  the  Virgin, 
and  crossing  himself  devoutly,  added : 

“ And  sure  it’s  yourself  knows  if  it’s  fair  to  make  me  pay  for 
devils  that  don’t  know  their  duties;  and,  after  all,  if  you  don’t 
understand  English  nor  Irish,  I’ve  been  wasting  my  time  here 
this  two  hours.” 

“ I say,  Mike,  how’s  the  Major?  How’s  Major  O' Shaughnessy  ?” 

“ Charmingly,  sir.  It  was  only  loss  of  blood  that  ailed  him; 
a thief  with  a pike — one  of  the  chaps  they  call  Poles,  bekase  of 
the  long  sticks  they  carry  with  them — stuck  the  Major  in  the 
ribs;  but  Dr.  Quill— God  reward  him!  he’s  a great  doctor,  and  a 
funny  devil  too — he  cured  him  in  no  time.” 

“ And  where  is  he  now,  Mike  ?” 

‘‘  Just  convanient,  in  a small  chapel  of  the  sacristy;  and  throu- 
ble  enough  we  have  to  keep  him  quiet.  He  gave  up  the  confu- 
sion of  roses  and  took  to  punch;  and  faith  it  isn’t  hymns  nor 
pasalms  (psalms)  he’s  singing  all  night.  And  they  had  me  there 
mixing  materials  and  singing  songs  till  I heard  the  bells  for 
matins,  and,  what  between  the  punch  and  the  prayers,  I never 
closed  my  eyes.” 

“ What  do  they  call  the  convent  ?” 

“ It  is  a hard  word,  I misremember;  it’s  something  like  salt- 
peter. But  how’s  your  honor?  it’s  time  to  ask.” 

“ Much  better,  Mike;  much  better.  But,  as  I see  that  either 
your  drink  or  your  devotion  seems  to  have  affected  your  nerves, 
you’d  better  lie  down  for  an  hour  or  two.  I shall  not  want  you. 

“ That’s  just  what  J can't;  for  you  see  I’m  making  a song  for 
this  evening.  The  Rangers  has  a little  supper,  and  I’m  to  be 
there;  and  though  I’ve  made  one,  I’m  not  sure  it’ll  do.  May  be 
your  honor  would  give  me  your  opinion  about  it  ?” 

“ With  all  my  heart,  Mike;  let’s  hear  it.” 

“Arrah,  is  it  here!  before  the  Virgin  and  the  two  blessed 
saints  that’s  up  there  in  the  glass  cases  ? But  sure,  when  they 
make  an  hospital  of  the  place,  and  after  the  Major’s  songs  last 
night ” 

“ Exactly  so,  Mike;  out  with  it.” 

“Well,  ma’am,”  said  he,  turning  toward  the  Virgin,  “as  I 
suspect  you  don’t  know  English,  may  be  you’ll  think  itV  my 
offices  I’m  singing.  So,  sav^ing  your  favor  here  it  is  : 

MR.  FREE’S  SON(h 

JU'  - “ ARKAH,  CATTY,  NOW,  CAN’T  Ya:Kr  BE  ASY?’^ 

“Oh,  what  stories  I’ll  tell  when  my  sogering’s o’er, 

Anti  the  gallant  Fourteenth  is  disbanded. 

Not  a drill  nor  parade  will  I hear  of  no  more. 

When  safely  in  Ireland  Fra  landed. 


58 


CHARLES  aMALLElt 


With  the  blood  that  I spilt — the  Frenchmen  I kilt, 

I’ll  drive  the  young  girls  half  crazy; 

And  some  cute  one  will  cry,  with  the  wink  of  her  ey@c 
‘ Mister  Free,  now — why  canHyou  he  asyP 

I’ll  tell  how  we  routed  the  squadrons  in  fight, 

And  destroyed  them  all  at  ‘ Talavera,  ’ 

And  then  I’ll  just  add,  how  we  finished  the  night, 

In  learning  to  dance  the  ‘bolera;’ 

How  by  the  moonshine  we  drank  raal  wine, 

And  rose  next  day  fresh  as  a daisy; 

Then  someone  will  cry,  with  a look  mighty  sly, 

‘ Arrah,  Mickey— caoiH  you  he  asy  P 

I’ll  tell  how  the  nights  with  Sir  Arthur  we  spent. 

Around  the  big  fire  in  the  air,  too. 

Or  may  be  enjoying  ourselves  in  a tent. 

Exactly  like  Donnybrook  Fair,  too; 

How  he’d  call  out  to  me,  ' Pass  the  wine,  Mr.  Free, 

For  you’re  a man  never  is  lazy!’ 

Then  some  one  will  cry  With  the  wink  of  her  eye, 

‘ Arrah,  Mickey  dear— you  he  asy  P 

“ I’ll  tell,  too,  the  long  years  in  fighting  we  passed. 

Till  Mounseer  asked  Bony  to  lead  him; 

And  Sir  Arthur,  grown  tired  of  glory  at  last, 

Begged  of  one  Mickey  Free  to  succeed  him. 

But,  ‘ acushla,’  says  I,  ‘the truth  is,  I’m  shy! 

There’s  a lady  in  Ballymacrazy! 

And  I swore  on  the  book  ’ — he  gave  me  a look, 

And  cried,  ‘ Mickey — 7iow  canHyou  he  asyP 

Arrah!  Mickey,  now  can’t  you  be  aisy  f ’ sang  out  a voice  in 
chorus,  and  the  next  moment  Dr.  Quill  himself  made  his  ap- 
near  an  ce. 

Well,  O’Malley,  is  it  a penitential  psalm  you're  singing,  or 
is  my  friend  Mike  endeavoring  to  raise  your  spirits  with  a Gal- 
way sonata?” 

“ A little  bit  of  his  own  muse,  Doctor,  nothing  more;  but  tell 
me,  hov/  goes  it  with  the  Major— is  the  poor  fellow  out  of  dan- 
ger ?” 

“ Except  from  the  excess  of  his  appetite,  I know  of  no  risk 
he  runs.  His  servant  is  making  gruel  for  him  all  day  in  a thing 
like  the  grog -tub  of  a frigate;  but  you’ve  heard  the  news — 
Sparks  has  been  exchanged;  he  came  here  last  night;  but  the 
moment  he  caught  sight  of  me  he  took  his  departure.  Begad, 
I’m  sure  he’d  rather  pass  a month  in  Verdun  than  a week  in  my 
company.” 

“ By  the  bye,  Doctor,  you  never  told  me  how  this  same  antipa- 
thy of  Sparks  for  you  had  its  origin.” 

“ Sure  I drove  him  out  of  the  Tenth  before  he  was  tlii’ee  weeks 
with  the  regiment.” 

“Ay,  I remember  you  began  the  story  for  me  one  night  on 
the  retreat  from  the  Goa,  but  something  broke  it  off  in  the 
middle.” 

“ Just  so;  I was  sent  for  to  the  rear  to  take  off  some  gentle- 
man’s legs  that  weren’t  in  dancing  condition;  but,  as  there’s  no 


CHARLES  am  ALLEY. 


159 


fear  of  interruption  now,  I’ll  finish  the  story.  But,  first,  let’s 
have  a peep  at  the  wounded.  What  beautiful  anatomists  they  are 
in  the  French  artillery.  Do  you  feel  the  thing  I have  now  in 
my  forceps — there,  don’t  jump — that’s  a bit  of  the  brachial 
nerve,  most  beautifully  display ed~faith,  I think  I’ll  give  Mike 
a demonstration.” 

‘‘Oh!  Misther  Quill,  dear!  Oh!  Doctor,  darling!” 

“ArraL!  Mickey,  now  can’t  ye  be  aisy?”  sang  out  Maurice, 
with  a perfect  imitation  of  Mike’s  voice  and  manner. 

“ A little  lint  here — bend  your  arm — that’s  it — don’t  move 
your  fingers.  Now,  Mickey,  make  me  a cup  of  coffee  with  a 
glass  of  &andy  in  it.  And  now,  Charley,  for  Sparks.  I believe 
I told  you  what  kind  of  fellows  the  Tenth  were — regular  out  and 
outers,  we  hadn’t  three  men  in  the  regiment  that  were  not  from 
the  south  of  Ireland;  the  Bocca  Corkanna  on  their  lips,  fun  and 
devilment  in  their  eyes,  and  more  drollery  anil  humbug  in  their 
hearts  than  in  all  the  messes  in  the  service  put  together.  No  man 
had  any  chance  among  them  if  he  wasn’t  a real  droll  one;  every 
man  wrote  his  own  songs  and  sang  them  too;  it  was  no  small 
promotion  could  tempt  a fellow  to  exchange  out  of  the  corps. 
You  may  think,  then,  what  a prize  your  friend  Sparks  proved  to 
us;  we  held  a court-martial  upon  him  the  week  after  he  joined; 
it  was  proved  in  evidence  that  he  had  never  said  a good  thing 
in  his  life,  and  had  about  as  much  notion  of  a joke  as  a Chero- 
kee has  of  the  Court  of  Chancery;  and,  as  to  singing,  Lord  bless 
you!  he  had  a tune  with  wooden  turns  to  it,  it  was  most  cruel 
to  hear;  and  then  the  look  of  him;  those  eyes,  like  dropsical 
oysters,  and  the  hair  standing  every  way  like  a field  of  insane 
flax,  and  the  mouth  with  a curl  in  it  like  the  slit  in  the  side  of  a 
fiddle.  A pleasant  fellow  that  for  a mess  that  always  boasted 
the  best-looking  chaps  in  the  service.” 

“ ‘What’s  to  be  done  with  him?’  said  the  Major;  ‘shall  we 
tell  him  we  are  ordered  to  India,  and  terrify  him  about  his 
liver  f 

“ ‘ Or  drill  him  into  a hectic  fever?’ 

“ ‘Or  drink  him  dry  ?’ 

“ ‘ Or  get  him  into  a fight,  and  wing  him  ?* 

“ ‘ Oh,  no,’  said  I,  ‘ leave  him  to  me;  we'll  laugh  him  out  of 
ihe  corps.’ 

“ ‘Yes,  we’ll  leave  him  to  you,  Maurice,’  said  the  rest. 

“ And  that  day  week  you  might  read  in  the  Gazette,  ‘ Pierce 
Flynn  O’ Haggerty,  to  be  ensign.  Tenth  foot,  vice  Sparks,  ex- 
changed.’ ” 

“But  how  was  it  done,  Maurice?  You  haven’t  told  me  that  ” 

“ Nothing  easier.  I affected  great  intimacy  with  Sparks;  be- 
moaned our  hard  fate,  mutually,  in  being  attached  to  such  a 
regiment,  a damnable  corps  this — low,  vulgar  fellows — practical 
jokes;  not  the  kind  of  thing  one  expects  in  the  army.  But,  as 
for  me,  I’ve  joined  it  partly  from  necessity.  You,  however, 
who  might  be  in  a crack  regiment,  I can’t  conceive  your  remain- 
ing in  it. 

“ ‘ But  why  did  you  join,  Doctor  ?’  said  he;  ‘ what  necessity 
eould  have  induced  you  r 


160 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


‘ Ah!  my  friend,’  said  I,  ‘ that  is  the  secret;  that  is  the  hidden 
grief  that  must  lie  buried  in  my  own  bosom.’ 

“I  saw  that  his  curiosity  was  excited,  and  took  every  means 
to  increase  it  further.  At  length,  as  if  yielding  to  a sudden  im- 
pulse of  friendship,  and  having  sworn  him  to  secrecy,  I took  him 
aside  and  began  thus: 

“ ‘ I may  trust  you.  Sparks,  I feel  I may,  and  when  I tell  you 
that  my  honor,  my  reputation,  my  whole  fortune  is  at  stake, 
you  will  judge  of  the  importance  of  the  trust.’ 

“The  goggle  eyes  rolled  fearfully,  and  his  features  exhibited 
the  most  craving  anxiety  to  hear  my  story. 

“‘You  wish  to  know  why  I left  the  Fifty-sixth.  Now  I’ll 
tell  you,  but  mind,  you’re  pledged,  you’re  sworn  never  to 
divulge  it.’ 

“ ‘ Honor  bright.’ 

“ ‘ There,  that’s  enough;  I’m  satisfied.  It  was  a slight  infrac- 
tion of  the  articles  of  war;  a little  breach  of  the  rules  and  regu- 
lations of  the  service;  a trifling  misconception  of  the  mess  code; 
they  caught  me  one  evening  leaving  the  mess  with — what  do 
you  think  in  my  pocket?  but  you’ll  never  tell?  No,  no,  I know 
you’ll  not;  eight  forks,  and  a gravy -spoon;  silver  forks,  every 
one  of  them;  devil  a lie  in  it. 

“ ‘ There  now,’  said  I,  grasping  his  hand,  ‘ you  have  my 
secret;  my  fame  and  character  are  in  your  hands;  for  you  see, 
they  made  me  quit  the  regiment;  a man  can’t  stay  in  a corps 
where  he  is  laughed  at.’ 

“ Covering  my  face  with  my  handkerchief,  as  if  to  conceal  my 
shame,  I turned  away  and  left  Sparks  to  his  meditations.  That 
same  evening  we  happened  to  have  some  strangers  at  mess,  the 
bottle  was  passing  freely  round,  and,  as  usual,  the  good  spirits 
of  the  party  at  the  top  of  their  bent,  when  suddenly,  from  the 
lovi^er  end  of  the  table,  a voice  was  heard  demanding,  in  tones 
of  the  most  pompous  importance,  permission  to  address  the 
president  upon  a topic  where  the  honor  of  the  whole  regiment 
was  concerned. 

“ ^ I rise,  gentlemen,’  said  Mr.  Sparks,  ‘ with  feelings  the  most 
painful;  whatever  may  have  been  the  laxity  of  habit  and  free- 
dom of  conversation  habitual  in  this  regiment,  I never  believed 
that  so  flagrant  an  instance  as  this  morning  came  to  my 
ears ’ 

“ ‘ Oh!  murder,’  said  I.  ‘ Oh,  Sparks,  darling,  sure  you’re  not 
going  to  tell  ?’ 

“ ‘ Dr.  Quill,’  replied  he  in  an  austere  tone,  ‘ it  is  impossible  for 
me  to  conceal  it.’ 

“ ‘ Oh!  Sparks,  dear,  will  you  betray  me  ?’ 

“I gave  him  here  a look  of  the  most  imploring  entreaty,  to 
which  he  replied  by  one  of  unflinching  sternness. 

“ ‘ I have  made  up  my  mind,  sir,’  continued  he;  ‘ it  is  possi- 
ble the  officers  of  this  corps  may  look  mort'  leniently  than  I do 
upon  this  transaction;  but  know  it  they  shall.’ 

“ ‘Out  with  it.  Sparks — tell  it  by  all  means,’  cried  a number 
of  voices,  for  it  was  clear  to  every  one,  by  this  time,  that  he  was 
involved  in  a hoax. 


Cn ARLES  O'MALLEY. 


161 


‘‘  Amid,  therefore,  a confused  volley  of  entreaty  on  one  side, 
and  my  reiterated  prayers  for  his  silence  on  the  other,  Sparks 
thus  begun: 

“ ‘Are  you  aware,  gentlemen,  why  Dr.  Quill  left  the  Fifty- 
sixth  ? 

“ ‘ No,  no,  no,’  rang  from  all  sides:  ‘ let’s  have  it.’ 

“ ‘ No  sir!’  said  he,  turning  toward  me,  ‘ concealment  is  im- 
possible—an  officer  detected  with  the  mess  plate  in  his 
pocket ’ 

“ They  never  let  him  finish,  for  a roar  of  laughter  shook  the 
table  from  one  end  to  the  other,  while  Sparks,  horror-struck  at 
the  lack  of  feeling  and  propriety  that  could  make  men  treat  such 
a matter  with  ridicule,  glared  around  him  on  every  side. 

“ ‘Oh!  Maurice,  Maurice!’  cried  the  Major,  wiping  his  eyes, 
‘ this  is  too  bad — this  is  too  bad.’ 

“ ‘ Gracious  Heaven!’  screamed  Sparks;  ‘ can  you  laugh  at  it  ?’ 

“ ‘ Laugh  at  it,’  re-echoed  the  pay-master.  ‘ God  grant  I only 
don’t  burst  a blood-vessel;’  and,  once  more,  the  sounds  of  merri- 
ment rang  out  anew,  and  lasted  for  several  minutes. 

“ ‘ Oh!  Maurice  Quill,’  cried  an  old  captain,  ‘ you’ve  been  too 
heavy  on  the  lad.  Why,  Sparks,  man,  he's  been  humbugging 
you.’ 

“ Scarcely  were  the  words  spoken  when  he  sprang  from  the 
room;  the  whole  truth  flashed  at  once  upon  his  mind;  in  an  in- 
stant he  saw  that  he  had  exposed  himself  to  the  merciless 
ridicule  of  a mess  table,  and  that  all  peace  for  him,  in  that  regi- 
ment at  least,  was  over. 

“ We  got  a glorious  fellow  in  exchange  for  him;  and  Sparks 
descended  into  a cavalry  regiment — I ask  your  pardon,  Charley 
— where,  as  .you  are  well  aware,  sharp  wit  and  quick  intellect 
are  by  no  means  indispensable.  There,  now,  don’t  be  angry,  or 
you’ll  do  yourself  harm.  So  good-bye  for  an  hour  or  two.” 


CHAPTER  XCTX. 

THE  count's  letter. 

O’Shaughnessy’s  wound,  like  my  own,  was  happily  only 
formidable  from  the  loss  of  blood.  The  saber  or  the  lance  is 
rarely,  indeed,  so  death-dealing  as  the  musket  or  the  bayonet; 
and  the  murderous  fire  from  a square  of  infantry  is  far  more 
terrific  in  its  consequences  than  the  lieaviest  charge  of  a cavalry 
column.  In  a few  weeks,  therefore,  we  were  once  more  about, 
and  fit  for  duty;  but,  for  the  present,  the  campaign  was  ended; 
the  rainy  season,  with  the  attendant  train  of  sickness  and  sor- 
row, set  in;  the  troops  were  cantoned  along  the  line  of  the  fron- 
tier, the  infantry  occupying  the  villages,  and  the  cavalry  being 
stationed  wherever  forage  could  be  obtained. 

The  Fourteenth  were  posted  at  Avintas;  but  I saw  little  of 
them;  I was  continually  employed  upon  the  staff;  and,  as  Gen- 
eral Crawford’s  activity  suffered  no  diminution  from  the  inter- 
ruption of  the  campaign,  I rarely  passed  a day  without  being 
eight  or  nine  hours  on  horseback. 


162 


CHARLES  O'MALLEW 


The  preparations  for  the  siege  of  Ciudad  Rodrigo  occupied  om? 
undivided  attention.  To  the  reduction  of  this  fortress  and  of 
Badajos,  Lord  Wellington  looked  as  the  most  important  objects, 
and  prosecuted  his  plans  with  unremitting  zeal.  To  my  staff 
appointment  I owed  the  opportunity  of  witnessing  that  stupen- 
dous feature  of  war,  a siege;  and,  as  many  of  my  friends  forined 
a part  of  the  blockading  force,  I spent  more  than  one  night  in 
the  trenches.  Indeed,  except  for  this,  the  tiresome  monotony  of 
life  was  most  irksome  at  this  period.  Day  after  day  the  inces- 
sant rain  poured  down;  the  supplies  were  bad,  scanty,  and  irreg- 
ular; the  hospitals  crowded  with  sick;  field-sports  impracticable; 
books  there  were  none;  and  a dullness  and  spiritless  depression 
prevailed  on  every  side.  Those  who  were  actively  engaged 
around  Ciudad  Rodrigo  had,  of  course,  the  excitement  and  in- 
terest which  the  enterprise  involved;  but  even  there,  the  works 
made  slow  progress;  the  breaching  artillery  was  defective  in 
every  way;  the  rain  undermined  the  fasces  of  the  bastions;  the 
clayey  soil  sank  beneath  the  weight  of  the  heavy  guns;  and  the 
storms  of  one  night  frequently  destroyed  more  than  a whole 
week’s  labor  had  effected. 

Thus  passed  the  dreary  months  along;  the  cheeriest  and  gay- 
est among  us  broken  in  spirit,  and  subdued  in  heart,  by  the 
tedium  of  our  life.  The  very  news  which  reached  us  partook  of 
the  gloomy  features  of  our  prospects;  we  heard  only  of  strong 
reinforcements  marching  to  the  support  of  the  French  in 
Estramadura;  we  were  told  that  the  Emperor,  whose  successes  in 
Germany  enabled  him  to  turn  his  entire  attention  to  tlie  Spanish 
campaign,  would  himself  be  present  in  the  coming  spring,  with 
overwhelming  odds,  and  a firm  determination  to  drive  us  from 
^he  Peninsula. 

In  that  frame  of  mind  which  such  gloomy  and  depressing 
prospects  are  well  calculated  to  suggest,  I was  returning  one 
night  to  my  quarters  at  Mucia,  when  suddenly  I beheld  Mike 
galloping  toward  me  with  a large  packet  in  his  hand,  which  he 
held  aloft  to  catch  my  attention.  “ Letters  from  England,  sir,” 
said  he;  “just  arrived  with  the  General’s  dispatches.”  I broke 
the  envelope  at  once,  which  bore  the  war-office  seal,  and  as  I 
did  so,  a perfect  avalanche  of  letters  fell  at  my  feet;  the  first 
which  caught  my  eye  was  an  official  intimation  from  the  Horse 
Guards,  that  the  Prince  Regent  had  been  graciously  pleased  to 
confirm  my  promotion  to  the  troop,  my  commission  to  bear 
date  from  the  appointment,  &c.,  &c.  I could  not  help  feeling 
struck  as  my  eye  ran  rapidly  across  the  lines,  that  although 
the  letter  came  from  Sir  George  Dash  wood’s  office,  it  contained 
not  a word  of  congratulation  nor  remembrance  on  his  part, 
but  was  couched  in  the  usual  cold  and  formal  language  of  an 
official  document  Impatient,  however,  to  look  over  my  other 
letters,  I thought  but  little  of  this;  so  throwing  them  hurriedly 
into  my  sabertasch,  I cantered  on  to  my  quarters  without  delay. 
Once  more  alone  and  in  silence,  I sat  down  to  commune  with 
my  far-off  friends;  and  yet,  with  all  my  anxiety  to  hear  of  home, 
passed  several  minutes  in  turning  over  the  letters,  guessing 
from  whom  they  might  have  ©ome,  and  picturing  to  myself 


CHARLES  C^M ALLEY. 


168 


their  contents.  Ah!  Frank  Webber,  I recognize  your  slap-dash, 
bold  hand,  without  the  aid  of  the  initials  in  the  corner;  and  this 
—what  can  it  be  ?— this  queer,  misshapen  thmg,  representing 
nothing  save  the  forty-seventh  proposition  of  Euclid,  and  the 
address  seemingly  put  on  with  a cat’s- tail  dipped  in  lamp-black? 
Yes,  true  enough,  it  is  for  Misther  Free  himself;  and  what  have 
we  here  ? this  queer,  quaint  hand,  is  no  new  acquaintance;  how 
many  a time  have  I looked  upon  it  as  the  ne  xjLus  ultra  of  cal- 
ligraphy! But  here  is  one  I’m  not  so  sure  of;  who  could  have 
written  this  bolt- upright,  old-fashioned  superscription;  not  a 
letter  of  which  seems  on  speaking  terms  with  its  neighbor — the 
very  O absolutely  turns  its  back  upon  the  M,  in  O’Malley,  and 
the  final  Y wags  his  tail  with  a kind  of  independent  shake,  as  if 
he  did  not  care  a curse  for  his  predecessors!  and  the  seal,  too; 
surely  I know  that  griffin’s  head,  and  the  stern  motto — 
rogo  sed  capio'^  To  be  sure,  it  is  Billy  Considine’s,  the  Count 
himself.  The  very  paper,  yellow  and  time-stained,  looks  coeval 
with  his  youth,  and  I could  even  venture  to  wager  that  his 
sturdy  pen  was  nibbed  half  a century  since.  I’ll  not  look 
further  among  this  confused  mass  of  three-cornered  billets,  and 
long,  treacherous-looking  epistles,  the  very  folding  of  which  de- 
notes the  dun;  here  goes  for  the  Count!  So  saying  to  myself,  I 
drew  closer  to  the  fire,  and  began  the  following  epistle: 

O’Malley  Castle,  Nov.  3d. 

‘‘Dear  Charley, — Here  we  sit  in  the  little  parlor,  with  your 
last  letter,  The  Times,  and  a big  map  before  us,  drinking  your 
health,  and  wishing  you  a long  career  of  the  same  glorious  suc- 
cess you  have  hitherto  enjoyed.  Old  as  I am — eighty-two  or 
eighty-three  (I  forget  which)  in  June — I envy  you  with  all  my 
heart.  Luck  has  stood  to  you,  my  boy;  and,  if  a French  saber 
or  bayonet  finish  you  now,  you’ve  at  least  had  a splendid  burst 
of  it.  I was  right  in  my  opinion  of  you,  and  Godfrey  himself 
owns  it  now — a lawyer,  indeed!  Bad  luck  to  them!  we’ve  had 
enough  of  lawyers;  there’s  old  Henessy — honest  Jack,  as  they 
used  to  call  him — that  your  uncle  trusted  for  the  last  forty  years, 
has  raised  eighteen  thousand  pounds  on  the  title  deeds — and  gone 
off  to  America.  The  old  scoundrel — but  it’s  no  use  talking;  the 
blow  is  a sore  one  to  Godfrey,  and  the  gout  more  troublesome 
than  ever.  Drumgold  is  making  a motion  in  Chancery' a bout  it, 
to  break  the  sale,  and  the  tenants  are  in  open  rebellion,  and  swear 
they’ll  murther  a receiver,  if  one  is  sent  down  among  them. 
Indeed,  they  came  in  such  force  into  Galway,  during  the  assizes, 
and  did  so  much  mischief  that  the  cases  for  trial  were  adjourn- 
ed, and  the  judges  left,  with  a military  escort  to  protect  them. 
This,  of  course,  is  gratifying  to  our  feelings;  for,  thank  Provi- 
dence, there  is  some  good  in  the  world  yet.  Kilmurry  was  sold 
last  week  for  twelve  thousand.  Andy  Blake  would  foreclose  the 
mortgage,  although  we  offered  him  every  kind  of  satisfaction. 
This  has  done  Godfrey  a deal  of  harm;  and  some  pitiful 
economy — taking  only  two  bottles  of  claret  after  his  dinner— has 
driven  the  gout  to  his  head.  They’ve  been  telling  him  he’d 
lengthen  his  days  by  this,  and  I tried  it  myself,  and  faith  it  was 


164 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


the  longest  day  I ever  spent  in  my  life.  I hope  and  trust  you 
take  your  liquor  like  a gentleman — and  an  Irish  gentleman. 

‘‘  Kinshela,  we  hear,  has  issued  an  execution  against  the  house 
and  furniture;  but  the  attempt  to  sell  the  demesne  nearly  killed 
your  uncle.  It  was  advertised  in  a London  paper,  and  an  offer 
made  for  it  by  an  old  General,  whom  you  may  remember  when 
down  here.  Indeed,  if  I mistake  not,  he  was  rather  kind  to  you 
in  the  beginning.  It  would  appear  he  did  not  wish  to  have  his 
name  known,  but  we  found  him  out,  and  such  a letter  as  we 
sent  him!  It’s  little  liking  he’ll  have  to  buy  a Galway  gentle- 
man’s estate  over  his  head,  that  same  Sir  George  Dashwood. 
Godfrey  offered  to  meet  him  anywhere  he  pleased,  and,  if  the 
Doctor  thought  he  could  bear  the  sea  voyage,  he’d  even  go  over 
to  Holyhead;  but  the  sneaking  fellow  sent  an  apologetic  kind  of 
a letter,  with  some  humbug  excuse  about  very  different  motives, 
etc.  But  we’ve  done  with  him,  and  I think  he  with  us.” 

When  I had  read  thus  far,  I laid  down  the  letter,  unable  to  go 
on;  the  accumulated  misfortunes  of  one  I loved  best  in  the  world 
following  so  fast  one  upon  another;  the  insult,  unprovoked, 
gratuitous  insult  to  him  upon  whom  my  hopes  of  future  happi- 
ness so  much  depended,  completely  overwhelmed  me.  I tried  to 
continue;  alas!  the  catalogue  of  evils  went  on;  each  line  bore 
testimony  to  some  further  wreck  of  fortune — some  clearer  evi- 
dence of  a ruined  house. 

All  that  my  gloomiest  and  darkest  forbodings  had  pictured 
was  come  to  pass;  sickness,  poverty,  harassing,  unfeeling  cred- 
itors; treachery  and  ingratitude  were  goading  to  madness  and 
despair  a spirit  whose  kindliness  of  nature  was  unequaled.  The 
shock  of  blasted  fortunes  was  falling  upon  the  dying  heart;  the 
convictions  which  a long  life  had  never  brought  home,  that  men 
were  false,  and  their  words  a lie,  were  stealing  over  the  man,  upon 
the  brink  of  the  grave;  and  he  who  had  loved  his  neighbor  like 
a brother  was  to  be  taught,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  that  the  beings 
he  trusted  were  perjured  and  forsworn. 

A more  unsuitable  adviser  tlian  Considine,  in  difficulties  like 
these,  there  could  not  be;  his  very  con  tempts  for  all  the  forms 
of  law  and  justice  was  sufficient  to  embroil  my  poor  uncle  still 
further,  so  that  I resolved  at  once  to  apply  for  leave,  and  if  re- 
fused, and  no  other  alternative  offered,  to  leave  the  service.  It 
was  not  without  a sense  of  sorrow,  bordering  on  despair,  that  I 
came  to  this  determination.  My  soldier’s  life  had  become  a pas- 
sion with  me;  I loved  it  for  its  bold  and  chivalrous  enthusiasm, 
its  hour  of  battle  and  strife,  its  day  of  endurance  and  hardship, 
its  trials,  its  triumphs,  its  very  reverses  were  endeared  by  those 
they  were  shared  with;  and  the  spirit  of  adventure,  and  the 
love  of  danger — that  most  exciting  of  all  gambling — had  now 
entwined  themselves  in  my  very  nature;  to  surrender  all  these 
at  once,  and  to  exchange  the  daily,  hourly  enthusiasm  of  a cam- 
paign for  the  prospects  now  before  me,  was  almost  maddening. 
But  still  a sustaining  sense  of  duty  of  what  I owed  to  him  who, 
in  his  love  had  sacrificed  all  for  me,  overpowered  every  other 
txmsideration;  my  mind  was  made  uj). 

Father  Rush’s  letter  was  little  more  than  a recapitulation  c/ 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


165 


the  Count's.  Debt,  distress,  sickness,  and  the  heart-burnings  of 
altered  fortunes  filled  it,  and  when  I closed  it,  I felt  like  one 
over  all  whose  views  in  life  a dark  and  ill-omened  cloud  was 
closing  forever.  Webber’s  I could  not  read;  the  light  and  cheer- 
ful raillery  of  a friend  would  have  seemed,  at  such  a time,  like 
the  cold,  unfeeling  sarcasm  of  an  enemy.  I sat  down  at  last  to 
write  the  General,  inclosing  my  application  for  leave,  and  beg- 
ging of  him  to  forward  it,  with  a favorable  recommendation,  to 
headquarters. 

This  done,  I lay  down  upon  my  bed,  and,  overcome  by  fatigue 
and  fretting,  fell  asleep  to  dream  of  my  home  and  those  I had 
left  there,  which,  strangely,  too,  were  presented  to  my  mind  with 
all  the  happy  features  that  made  them  so  dear  to  my  infancy. 


CHAPTER  C. 

THE  TRENCHES. 

“I  HAVE  not  had  time,  O’  Malley,  to  think  of  your  applica- 
tion,” said  Crawford,  “ nor  is  it  likely  I can  for  a day  or  two. 
Read  that.”  So  saying,  he  pushed  toward  me  a note,  written 
in  pencil,  which  run  thus: 

“ Ciudad  Rodrigo,  18th  December. 

“ Dear  C., — Fletcher  tells  me  that  the  breaches  will  be  prac- 
ticable by  to-morrow  evening,  and  I think  so  myself.  Come 
OTer  then  at  once,  for  we  shall  not  lose  any  time.  Yours, 

‘‘W.” 

‘‘I  have  some  dispatches  for  your  regiment,  but  if  you  pre- 
fer coming  along  with  me ” 

“ My  dear  General,  dare  I ask  for  such  a favor  ?” 

“Well,  come  along;  only  remember  that,  although  my  divi- 
sion will  be  engaged,  I cannot  promise  you  anything  to  do;  so 
now,  g^t  your  horses  ready;  let’s  away.” 

It  was  in  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day  that  we  rode 
into  the  large  plain  before  Ciudad  Rodrigo,  and  in  which  the 
allied  armies  were  now  assembled  to  the  number  of  twelve 
thousand  men.  The  loud  booming  of  the  siege  artillery  had  been 
heard  by  me  some  hours  before;  b^ut,  notwithstanding  this  pre- 
lude and  my  own  high- wrought  expectations,  I was  far  from 
anticipating  the  magnificent  spectacle  w^hich  burst  upon  my 
astonished  view.  The  air  was  calm  and  still;  a clear  blue  wintry 
sky  stretched  overhead;  but  below  the  dense  blue  smoke  of  the 
deafening  guns  rolled  in  mighty  volumes  along  the  earth,  and 
entirely  concealed  the  lower  part  of  the  fortress;  above  this  the 
tall  towers  and  battlement ed  parapets  rose  into  the  thin  trans- 
parent sky,  like  fairy  palaces.  A bright  flash  of  flame  would 
now  and  then  burst  forth  from  the  walls,  and  a clanging  crash 
of  the  brass  metal  be  heard;  but  the  unceasing  roll  of  our  artil- 
lery nearly  drowned  all  other  sounds,  save  when  a loud  cheer 
would  burst  from  the  trenches;  while  the  clattering  fall  of 
masonry,  and  the  crumbling  stones  as  they  rolled  down,  be- 
spoke the  reason  of  the  cry.  The  utmost  activity  prevailed  on 
all  sides;  troops  pressed  forward  to  the  reliefs  in  the  parallels; 


166 


CHARLES  (y mallet: 


ammunition  wagons  moved  to  tlie  front;  general  and  staff  offi- 
cers rode  furiously  about  the  plain;  and  all  betokened  that  the 
hour  of  attack  was  no  longer  far  distant 

While  all  parties  were  anxiously  awaiting  the  decision  of  our 
chief,  the  general  order  was  made  known,  which,  after  briefly 
detailing  the  necessary  arrangements,  concluded  with  the  em- 
phatic words;  Ciudad  Eodrigo  must  be  stormed  to-night.”  All 
speculation  as  to  the  troops  to  be  engaged  in  this  daring  enter- 
prise was  soon  at  an  end ; for,  with  his  characteristic  sense  of 
duty.  Lord  Wellington  made  no  invidious  selection,  but  merely 
commanded  that  the  attack  should  be  made  by  whatever  divi- 
sions might  chance  to  be  that  day  in  the  trenches.  Upon  the  third 
and  light  divisions,  therefore,  this  glorious  task  devolved;  the 
former  was  to  attack  the  main  breach;  to  Crawford’s  division 
was  assigned  the,  if  possible,  more  difficult  enterprise  of  carry- 
ing the  Jesser  one;  while  Pack’s  Portuguese  brigade  were  to 
menace  the  convent  of  La  Caridad  by  a feint  attack,  to  be  con- 
verted into  a real  one,  if  circumstances  should  permit. 

The  decision,  however,  matured  and  comprehensive  in  all  its 
details,  was  finally  adopted  so  suddenly  that  every  staff-officer 
upon  the  ground  was  actively  engaged  during  the  entire  even- 
ing in  conveying  tiie  orders  to  the  different  regiments.  As  the 
day  drew  to  a close  the  cannonade  slackened  on  either  side,  a 
solitary  gun  would  be  heard  at  intervals,  and,  in  the  calm  still- 
ness around,  its  booming  thunder  re-echoed  along  the  valleys  of 
the  Sierra;  but,  as  the  moon  rose,  and  night  set  in,  these  were 
no  longer  heard,  and  a perfect  stillness  and  tranquillity  prevailed 
around.  Even  in  the  trenches,  crowded  with  armed  and  anxious 
soldiers,  not  a whisper  was  heard;  and,  amid  that  mighty  host 
which  filled  the  plain,  the  tramp  of  a patrol  could  be  distinctly 
noted,  and  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  French  sentry  upon  the  walls, 
telling  that  all  was  well  in  Ciudad  Eodrigo. 

The  massive  fortress  looming  larger  as  its  dark  shadoy  stood 
out  from  the  sky,  was  still  as  the  grave;  while  in  the  great 
breach  a faint  light  was  seen  to  twinkle  for  a moment,  and  then 
suddenly  to  disappear,  leaving  all  gloomy  and  dark  as  before. 

Having  been  sent  with  orders  to  the  third  division,  of  which 
the  Eighty- eighth  formed  a part,  I took  the  opportunity  of  finding 
out  O’Shaughnessy,  who  was  himself  to  lead  an  escalade  parly 
in  M’Kinnon’s  brigade.  He  sprang  toward  me  as  I came  for- 
ward, and  grasping  my  hand  with  more  than  usual  earnestness, 
called  out:  “ The  very  man  I wanted!  Charley,  my  boy,  do  us  a 
service  now!” 

Before  I could  reply,  he  continued  in  a low  tone;  ‘‘  A young 
fellow  of  ours,  Harry  Beauclerc,  has  been  badly  wounded  in  the 
trenches,  but,  by  some  blunder  his  injury  is  reported  as  a slight 
one,  and,  although  the  poor  fellow  can  scarcely  stand,  he  insists 
upon  going  witl)^th§  storiners.” 

“ Come  here.  Major!  come  here!”  cried  a voice  at  a little  dis 
tance. 

“Follow  me,  O’Malley,”  cried  O’Shaughnessy,  moving  in  the 
direction  of  the  speaker. 

By  the  light  of  a lantern  we  could  descry  two  officers,  kneeling 


CHARLES  O^M ALLEY, 


167 


upon  the  ground;  between  them  on  the  grass  lay  the  figure  of  a 
third,  upon  whose  features,  as  the  pale  light  fell,  the  hand  of 
death  seemed  rapidly  stealing.  A slight  froth,  tioged  with 
blood,  rested  on  his  lip,  and  the  florid  blood,  which  stained  the 
buff  facing  of  the  uniform,  indicated  that  his  wound  was 
through  the  lungs. 

“ He  has  fainted,”  said  one  of  the  officers,  in  a low  tone. 

“Are  you  certain  it  is  fainting?”  said  the  other,  in  a still 
lower. 

“ You  see  how  it  is,  Charley,”  said  O’Shaughnessy;  “ this  poor 
boy  must  be  carried  to  the  rear.  Will  you,  then,  like  a kind 
fellow,  hasten  back  to  Colonel  Campbell  and  mention  the  fact  ? 
It  will  kill  Beauclerc,  should  any  doubt  rest  upon  his  conduct, 
if  he  ever  recover  this.” 

While  he  spoke,  four  soldiers  of  the  regiment  placed  the 
wounded  officer  in  a blanket.  A long  sigh  escaped  him,  and  he 
muttered  a few  broken  words. 

“Poor  fellow!  its  his  mother  he’s  talking  of.  He  only  joined 
a month  since,  and  he  is  a mere  boy.  Come,  O’Malley,  lose  no 
time.  By  Jove!  it  is  too  late;  there  goes  the  first  rocket  for 
the  columns  to  form.  In  ten  minutes  more  the  stormers  must 
fall  in.” 

“What’s  the  matter,  Giles?”  said  he  to  one  of  the  officers 
who  had  stopped  the  soldiers  as  they  were  moving  off  with  their 
burden.  “ What  is  it?” 

“ I have  been  cutting  the  white  tape  off  his  arm;  for  if  he 
sees  it  on  waking,  he’ll  remember  all  about  the  storming.” 

“Quite  right — thoughtfully  done,”  said  the  other.  “But 
who  is  to  lead  his  fellows?  Bte  was  in  the  forlorn  hope.” 

“I’ll  do  it!”  cried  I,  with  eagerness.  “Come,  O’Shaughnessy, 
you’ll  not  refuse  me ” 

“Refuse  you,  boy!”  said  he,  grasping  my  hand  with  both  of 
his.  “Never!  But  you  must  change  your  coat.  The  gallant 
Eighty-eighth  will  never  mistake  their  countryman’s  voice;  but 
your  uniform  will  be  devilish  likely  to  get  you  a bayonet 
through  it;  so  come  back  with  me,  and  we’ll  make  you  a ranger 
in  no  time.” 

“ I can  give  your  friend  a cap.” 

“ And  I,’'  said  the  other,  “ a brandy-flask,  which,  after  all,  is 
not  the  worst  part  of  a storming  equipage.” 

“ I hope,”  said  O’Shaughnessy,  “they  may  find  Maurice  in 
the  rear.  Beauclerc’s  all  safe  in  his  hands.” 

“ That  they’ll  not,”  said  Giles,  “ you  may  swear.  Quill  is  this 
moment  in  the  trenches,  and  will  not  be  the  last  man  in  the 
breach.” 

“ Follow  me  now,  lads,”  said  O'Shaughnessy,  in  a low  voice. 
“ Our  fellows  are  at  the  angle  of  this  trench.  Who  the  deuce 
can  that  be,  talking  so  loud  ?” 

“ It  must  be  Maurice,”  said  Giles. 

The  question  was  soon  decided  by  the  Doctor  himself,  who  ap- 
peared giving  directions  to  his  hospital-sergeant. 

“Yes,  Peter,  take  the  tools  up  to  a convenient  spot  near  the 
breach.  There’s  many  a snug  corner  there  in  the  ruins,  and 


168 


CHARLES  OAl  ALLEY. 


although  we  mayn’t  have  as  good  an  operation  room  as  in  old 
‘ Stephens’s,’  yet  well  beat  them  hollow  in  cases.” 

“Listen  to  the  fellow,”  said  Giles  with  a shudder.  “The 
thought  of  his  confounded  thuin-screws  and  tourniquets  is  worse 
to  me  than  a French  howitzer.” 

“The  devil  a kinder  hearted  fellow  than  Maurice,”  said 
O’Shaughnessy,  “ for  all  that;  and  if  his  heart  was  to  be  known 
this  moment,  he’d  rather  handle  a sword  than  a saw.” 

“ True  for  you,  Dennis,”  said  Quill,  overhearing  him;  “ but  we 
are  both  useful  in  our  way,  as  the  hangman  said  to  Lord  Clare.” 

“ But  should  you  not  be  in  the  rear,  Maurice  ?”  said  I. 

“ You  are  right,  O’Malley,”  said  he,  in  a whisper;  “but  you 
see  I owe  the  Cork  Insurance  Company  a spite,  for  making  me 
pay  a gout  premium,  and  that’s  the  reason  I’m  here.  I warned 
them  at  the  time  that  their  stinginess  would  come  to  no  good.” 

“ I say,  Captain  O’Malley,”  said  Giles,  “ I find  I can’t  be  as 
good  as  my  word  with  you;  my  servant  has  moved  to  the  rear 
with  all  my  traps.” 

“ What  is  to  be  done?”  said  I. 

“ Is  it  shaving  utensils  you  want?”  said  Maurice.  “Would  a 
scalpel  serve  your  turn  ?” 

“No,  Doctor,  I’m  going  to  take  a turn  of  duty  with  your  fel- 
lows to-night.” 

“ In  the  breach — with  the  stormers?” 

“ With  the  forlorn  hope,”  said  O’Shaughnessy.  “ Beauclerc  is 
so  badly  wounded  that  we’ve  sent  him  back,  and  Charley,  like 
a good  fellow,  has  taken  his  place.” 

“Martin  told  me,”  said  Maurice,  “that  Beauclerc  was  only 
stunned;  but,  upon  my  conscience,  the  hospital  mates  nowa- 
days are  no  better  than  the  watchmakers;  they  can’t  tell  what’s 
wrong  with  the  instrument  till  they  pick  it  to  pieces.  Whiz — 
there  goes  a blue  light.” 

“Move  on;  move  on,”  whispered  O’Shaughnessy,  “they’re 
telling  off  the  stormers.  That  rocket  is  the  order  to  fall  in.” 

“ But  what  am  I to  do  for  a coat  ?” 

“ Take  mine,  my  boy,”  said  Maurice,  throwing  off  an  upper 
garment  of  coarse  gray  frieze,  as  he  spoke. 

“ There’s  a neat  bit  of  uniform,”  continued  he,  turning  himself 
round  for  our  admiration;  “ don’t  I look  mighty  like  the  pictures 
of  George  the  First  at  the  battle  of  Dettingen?” 

A burst  of  approving  laughter  was  our  only  answer  to  this 
speech,  while  Maurice  proceeded  to  denude  himself  of  his  most 
extraordinary  garment. 

“ What,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  is  it?”  said  I. 

“Don’t  despise  it,  Charley;  it  knows  the  smell  of  gunpowder 
as  well  as  any  bit  of  scarlet  in  the  service,”  while  he  added  in  a 
whisper,  “ it’s  the  ould  Roscommon  yeomanry.  My  uncle  com- 
manded them  in  the  year  ’42.  and  this  was  his  coat.  I don’t 
mean  to  say  that  it  was  new  then,  for  you  see  it’s  a kind  of  heir- 
loom in  the  Quill  family,  and  it’s  not  every  one  I’d  be  giving  it 
to.” 

“A  thousand  thanks,  Maurice,’  said  I,  as  I buttoned  it  on, 
amid  an  ill-suppressed  titter  of  laughter. 


CHARLES  OAIALLEY, 


169 


“It  fits  you  like  a sentry  box,”  said  Maurice,  as  he  surveyed 
me  with  his  lantern.  “ The  skirts  separate  behind  in  the  most 
picturesque  manner,  and,  when  you  button  the  collar,  it  will 
keep  your  head  up  so  high  that  the  devil  a bit  you’ll  see  except 
the  blessed  moon.  It’s  a thousand  pities  you  haven't  the  three- 
cocked  hat,  with  the  feather  trimming.  If  you  wouldn’t  frighten 
the  French,  my  name’s  not  Maurice. 

“ Turn  about  here  till  I admire  you.  If  you  only  saw  yourself 
in  a glass,  you’d  never  join  the  dragoons  again.  And  look  now, 
don’t  be  exposing  yourself,  for  I wouldn’t  have  those  blue  facings 
destroyed  for  a week’s  pay.” 

“Ah,  then,  it’s  yourself  is  the  dartin’.  Doctor  dear,”  said  a 
voice  behind  me.  I turned  round;  it  was  Mickey  Free,  who  was 
standing  with  a most  profound  admiration  of  Maurice  beaming 
in  every  feature  of  his  face.  “It’s  yourself  has  a joke  for  every 
hour  o’  the  day.” 

“ Get  to  the  rear,  Mike,  get  to  the  rear  with  the  cattle;  this  is 
no  place  for  you  or  them.” 

“ Good  night,  Mickey,”  said  Maurice. 

“ Good  night,  your  honor,”  muttered  Mike  to  himself;  “ may 
I never  die  till  you  set  a leg  for  me.” 

“Are  you  dressed  for  the  ball?”  said  Maurice,  fastening  the 
white  tape  upon  my  arm.  “ There  now,  my  boy,  move  on,  for 
I think  I hear  Picton’s  voice;  not  that  it  signifies  now,  for  he’s 
always  in  a heavenly  temper  when  any  one’s  going  to  be  killed. 
I’m  sure  he’d  behave  like  an  angel,  if  he  only  knew  the  ground 
was  mined  under  his  feet.” 

“ Charley,  Charley,”  cried  out  O’Shaughnessy,  in  a suppressed 
voice,  “ come  up  quickly.” 

“ No.  24,  John  Forbes — here!  Edward  Gillespie — here!” 

“Who  leads  this  party.  Major  O’Shaughnessy  ?” 

“ Mr.  Beauclerc,  sir,”  replied  O’Shaughnessy,  pushing  me  for- 
ward by  the  arm  while  he  spoke. 

“ Keep  your  people  together,  sir;  spare  the  powder,  and  trust 
to  your  cold  iron.”  He  grasped  my  hand  within  his  iron  grip, 
and  rode  on. 

“Who  was  it,  Dennis?”  said  I. 

“ Don’t  you  know  him,  Charley  ? that  was  Picton.” 


CHAPTER  Cl. 

THE  STORMING  OF  CIUDAD  RODRIGO. 

Whatever  the  levity  of  the  previous  moment,  the  scene  be- 
fore us  now  repressed  it  effectually.  The  deep-toned  bell  of  the 
cathedral  tolled  seven,  and  scarcely  \vere  its  notes  dying  away 
in  the  distance,  when  the  march  of  the  columns  was  heard  steal- 
ing along  the  ground.  A low,  murmuring  whisper  ran  along  the 
advanced  files  of  the  forlorn  hope;  stocks  were  loosened,  packs 
and  knapsacks  thrown  to  the' ground;  each  man  pressed  his  cap 
more  firmly  down  upon  his  brow,  and,  with  lip  compressed  and 
Steadfast  e3"e,  waited  for  the  word  to  move. 

It  came  at  last;  the  word  “march!”  passed  in  v'hispers  from 
rank  to  rank,  and  the  dark  mass  moved  on.  What  a moment 


170 


CHARLES  aMALLEY 


was  that,  as  we  advanced  to  the  foot  of  the  breach!  The  con- 
sciousness that,  at  the  same  instant,  from  different  points  of 
that  vast  plain,  similar  parties  were  moving  on;  the  feeling  that, 
at  a word,  the  flame  of  the  artillery  and  the  flash  of  steel  would 
spring  from  that  dense  cloud,  and  death  and  carnage  in  every 
shape  our  imagination  can  conceive,  be  dealt  on  all  sides.  The 
hurried,  fitful  thought  of  home;  the  years  long  past,  compressed 
into  one  minute’s  space;  the  last  adieu  to  all  we’ve  loved,  ming- 
ling with  the  muttered  prayer  to  Heaven,  while,  high  above  aU, 
the  deep,  pervading  sense  that  earth  has  no  temptation  strong 
enough  to  turn  us  from  that  path  whose  ending  must  be  a sepul- 
cher. 

Each  heart  was  too  full  for  words.  We  followed  noiselessly 
along  the  turf,  the  dark  figure  of  our  leader  guiding  us  through 
the  gloom.  On  arriving  at  the  ditch  the  party  with  the  ladders 
moved  to  the  front.  Already  some  hay  packs  were  thrown  in, 
and  the  forlorn  hope  sprang  forward. 

All  was  still  and  silent  as  the  grave.  ‘ ‘ Quietly,  my  men — 
quietly!”  said  M’Kinnon;  “ don’t  press.”  Scarcely  had  he  spoken, 
when  a musket,  whose  charge,  contrary  to  orders,  had  not  been 
drawn,  went  off.  The  whizzing  bullet  could  not  have  struck  the 
wall,  when  suddenly  a bright  flame  burst  forth  from  the  ram- 
parts, and  shot  upward  toward  the  sky.  For  an  instant  the 
whole  scene  before  us  was  as  bright  as  noonday.  On  one  side 
the  dark  ranks  and  glistening  bayonets  of  the  enemy;  on  the 
other,  the  red  uniforms  of  the  British  columns;  compressed  like 
some  solid  wall,  they  stretched  along  the  plain. 

A deafening  roll  of  musketry  from  the  extreme  riglit  announc- 
ed that  the  third  division  was  already  in  action,  while  the  loud 
cry  of  our  leader  as  he  sprang  into  the  trench,  summoned  us  to 
the  charge.  The  leading  sections,  not  waiting^  for  the  ladders, 
jumped  down,  others  pressed  rapidly  behind  them, when  a loud, 
rumbling  thunder  crept  along  the  earth,  a hissing,  crackling 
noise  followed,  and  from  the  dark  ditch  a forked  and  vivid 
lightning  burst  like  the  flame  from  a volcano,  and  a mine  ex- 
ploded. Hundreds  of  shells  and  grenades  scattered  along  the 
ground  were  ignited  at  the  same  moment;  the  air  sparkled  with 
the  whizzing  fuses;  the  musketry  plied  incessantly  from  the  walls, 
and  every  man  of  the  leading  company  of  the  stormei  s was  blown 
to  pieces.  While  this  dreadful  catastrophe  was  enacting  before 
our  eyes,  the  different  assaults  were  made  on  all  sides;  the  whole 
fortress  seemed  girt  around  with  fire.  From  every  part  arose 
the  yells  of  triumph  and  the  shouts  of  the  assailants.  As  for  us, 
we  stood  upon  the  verge  of  the  ditch  breathless,  hesitating,  and 
horror-struck.  A sudden  darkness  succeeded  to  the  bright  glare, 
but  from  the  midst  of  the  gloom  the  agonizing  cries  of  the 
wounded  and  the  dying  rent  our  very  hearts. 

“Make  way  there!  make  way!  here  comes  Mackie’s  party,” 
cried  an  officer  in  front,  and  as  he  spoke  the  forlorn  hope  of  the 
Eighty-eighth  came  forward  at  a run;  jumping  recklessly  into 
the  ditch,  they  made  toward  the  breach;  the  supporting  division 
of  stormers  gave  one  inspiriting  cheer,  and  sprang  after  them. 
The  rush  was  tremendous,  for  scarcely  had  we  reached  the  crumb- 


CHABLES  OAIALLEY. 


171 


ling  ruins  of  the  rampart,  when  the  vast  column,  pressing  on 
like  some  mighty  torrent,  bore  down  upon  our  rear.  Now  com- 
menced a'scene  to  which  nothing  I ever  before  conceived  of  war 
could  in  any  degree  compare;  the  whole  ground,  covered  with 
combustibles  of  every  deadly  and  destructive  contrivance,  was 
rent  open  with  a crash;  the  huge  masses  of  masonry  bounded 
into  the  air  like  things  of  no  weight;  the  ringing  clangor  of  the 
iron  howitzers,  the  crackling  of  the  fuses,  the  blazing  splinters, 
the  shouts  of  defiance,  the  more  than  savage  yell  of  those  in 
whose  ranks  alone  the  dying  and  the  dead  were  numbered,  made 
up  a mass  of  sights  and  sounds  almost  maddening  with  their  ex- 
citement. On  we  struggled;  the  mutilated  bodies  of  the  leading 
files  almost  filling  the  way. 

By  this  time  the  third  division  had  joined  us,  and  the  crush 
of  our  thickening  ranks  was  dreadful;  every  moment  some  well- 
known  leader  fell  dead  or  mortally  wounded,  and  his  place  was 
supplied  by  some  gallant  fellow,  who,  springing  from  the  lead- 
ing files,  would  scarcely  have  uttered  his  cheer  of  encouragement, 
ere  he  himself  was  laid  low.  Many  a voice,  with  whose  notes 
I was  familiar,  would  break  upon  my  ear  in  tones  of  heroic  dar- 
ing, and  the  next  moment  burst  forth  in  a death-cry.  Fcr 
above  an  hour  the  frightful  carnage  continued,  fresh  troops  con- 
tinually advancing,  but  scarcely  a foot  of  ground  was  made:  the 
earth  belched  forth  its  volcanic  fires,  and  that  terrible  barrier  did 
no  man  pass.  In  turn  the  bravest  and  the  boldest  would  leap 
into  the  whizzing  fiame,  and  the  taunting  cheers  of  the  enemy 
triumphed  in  derision  at  the  effort. 

“Stormers,  to  the  front!  only  the  bayonet!  trust  to  nothing 
but  the  bayonet,”  cried  a voice  whose  almost  cheerful  accents 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  death-notes  around,  and  Gur- 
wood,  who  led  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  Fifty-second,  bounded  in- 
to the  chasm;  all  the  officers  sprang  simultaneously  after  him; 
the  men  pressed  madly  on,  a roll  of  withering  musketry  crashed 
upon  them;  a furious  shout  replied  to  it.  The  British,  springing 
over  the  dead  and  the  dying,  bounded  like  bloodhounds  on 
their  prey.  Meanwhile  the  ramparts  trembled  beneath  - the 
tramp  of  the  light  division,  who,  liaving  forced  the  lesser 
breach,  came  down  upon  the  fiank  of  the  French.  The  garrison, 
however,  thickened  their  numbers,  and  bravely  held  their 
ground.  Man  to  man  was  now  the  combat.  No  cry  for  quar- 
ter. No  supplicating  look  for  mercy:  it  was  the  death  struggle 
of  vengeance  and  despair.  At  this  instant  an  explosion  louder 
than  the  loudest  thunder  shook  the  air;  the  rent  and  torn-up 
ramparts  sprang  into  the  sky;  the  conquering  and  the  conquered 
were  alike  the  victims,  for  one  of  the  great  magazines  had  been 
ignited  by  a shell;  the  black  smoke,  streaked  with  lurid  flame, 
hung  above  the  dead  and  the  dying.  The  artillery  and  the  mur  - 
derous musketry  were  stilled — paralyzed,  as  it  were,  by  the  ruin 
and  devastation  before  them;  both  sides  stood  leaning  upon  their 
arms;  the  pause  was  but  momentary;  the  cries  of  wounded 
comrades  called  upon  their  hearts.  A fierce  burst  of  vengeance 
rent  the  air;  the  British  closed  nponthe  foe;  for  one  instant 


173 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


they  were  met;  the  next,  the  bayonets  gleamed  upon  the  ram 
parts,  and  Ciudad  Rodrigo  was  won. 


CHAPTER  CII. 

CIUDAD  RODRIGO. 

While  such  were  the  scenes  passing  round  me,  of  my  own 
part  in  them  I absolutely  knew  nothing;  for,  until  the  moment 
that  the  glancing  bayonets  of  the  light  division  came  rushing  on 
the  foe,  and  the  loud,  long  cheer  of  victory  burst  above  us,  I 
felt  like  one  in  a trance.  Then  I leaned  against  an  angle  of  the 
rampart,  overpowered  and  exhausted;  a bayonet  wound  which 
some  soldier  of  our  own  ranks  had  given  me  when  mounting 
the  breach,  pained  me  somewhat;  my  uniform  was  actually  torn 
to  rags;  my  head  bare;  of  ray  sword,  the  hilt  and  four  inches  of 
the  blade  alone  remained,  while  my  left  hand  firmly  grasped 
the  rammer  of  a cannon,  but  why  or  wherefore  I could  not  even 
guess.  As  thus  I stood,  the  unceasing  tide  of  soldiery  pressed 
on;  fresh  divisions  came  pouring  in,  eager  for  plunder  and  thirst- 
ing for  the  spoil.  The  dead  and  the  dying  were  alike  trampled  be- 
neath the  feet  of  that  remorseless  mass,  who,  actuated  by  ven- 
geance and  by  rapine,  sprang  fiercely  up  the  breach. 

Weak  and  exhausted,  faint  from  my  wound,  and  overcome  by 
my  exertions,  I sank  among  the  crumbling  ruin.  The  loud 
shouts  which  arose  from  the  town,  mingled  with  cries  and 
screams,  told  the  work  of  pillage  was  begun;  while  still  a drop- 
ping musketry  could  be  heard  on  the  distant  rampart,  where 
even  yet  the  French  made  resistance.  At  last  even  this  was 
hushed,  but  to  it  succeeded  the  far  more  horrifying  sounds  of 
rapine  and  murder;  the  forked  fiames  of  burning  houses  rose 
here  and  there  amid  the  black  darkness  of  the  night;  and  through 
the  crackling  of  the  timbers,  and  the  falling  crash  of  roofs,  the 
heart-rending  shriek  of  agony  rent  the  very  air.  Officers  pressed 
forward,  but  in  vain  were  their  efforts  to  restrain  their  men; 
the  savage  cruelty  of  the  moment  knew  no  bounds  of  restraint. 
More  than  one  gallant  fellow  perished  in  his  fruitless  endeavor 
to  enforce  obedience,  and  the  most  awful  denunciations  were 
now  uttered  against  those  whom  at  any  other  time  they  dared 
not  mutter  bt^fore. 

Thus  passed  the  long  night;  far  more  terrible  to  me  than  all 
the  dangers  of  the  storm  itself,  with  all  its  death  and  destruction 
dealing  around  it.  I know  not  if  I slept;  if  so,  the  horrors  on 
every  side  were  pictured  in  my  dreams;  and,  when  the  gray 
dawn  was  breaking,  the  cries  froni  the  doomed  city  were  still  ring- 
ing in  my  ears.  Close  around  me  the  scene  was  still  and  silent; 
the  wounded  had  been  removed  during  the  night,  but  the  thick- 
ly-packei  dead  lay  side  by  side,  where  they  fell.  It  was  a fear- 
ful sight  to  see  them,  as,  blood-stained  and  naked  (for  already 
the  camp-followers  had  stripped  the  bodies),  they  covered  the 
entire  breach.  From  the  rampart  to  the  ditch,  the  ranks  lay 
where  they  had  stood  in  life;  a faint  phosphoric  flame  flickered 
above  their  ghastly  corpses,  making  even  death  still  more  horri 
ble.  I was  gazing  steadfastly,  with  all  that  stupid  intensity 


CHARLES  OMALLEW 


173 


which  imperfect  senses  and  exhausted  faculties  possess,  when 
the  sound  of  voices  near  aroused  me. 

“ Bring  him  along;  this  way,  Bob.  Over  the  breach  with  the 
scoundrel,  into  the  fosse.” 

“He  shall  die  no  soldier’s  death,  by  Heaven!”  cried  another 
and  a deeper  voice,  “ if  I lay  his’ skull  open  with  my  ax.” 

“Oh,  mercy,  mercy!  as  you  hope  for ” 

“ Traitor!  don’t  dare  to  mutter  here!”  As  the  last  words  were 
spoken,  four  infantry  soldiers,  reeling  from  drunkenness,  drag- 
ged forward  a pale  and  haggard  wretch,  whose  limbs  trailed  be- 
hind him  like  those  of  palsy;  his  uniform  was  that  of  a French 
chasseur,  but  his  voice  bespoke  him  English. 

“Kneel  down,  there,  and  die  like  a man!  You  were  one, 
once!” 

“ Not  so,  Bill;  never.  Fix  bayonets,  boys!  That’s  right! 
Now  take  the  word  from  me.” 

“Oh,  forgive  me!  for  the  love  of  Heaven  forgive  me!”  screamed 
the  voice  of  the  victim;  but  his  last  accents  ended  in  a death- 
cry,  for,  as  he  spoke,  the  bayonets  flashed  for  an  instant  in  the 
air,  and  the  next  were  plunged  into  his  body.  Twice  I had 
essayed  to  speak,  but  my  voice,  hoarse  from  shouting,  came  not; 
and  I could  but  look  upon  this  terrible  murder  with  staring  eyes 
and  burning  brain.  At  last,  speech  came,  as  if  wrest  by  the  very 
excess  of  my  agony,  and  I muttered  aloud,  “Oh,  God!”  The 
words  were  not  well  spoken,  when  the  muskets  were  brought  to 
the  shoulders,  and,  reeking  with  the  blood  of  the  murdered  man 
their  savage  faces  scowled  at  me  as  I lay. 

A short  and  heartfelt  prayer  burst  from  my  lips,  and  I was 
still.  The  leader  of  the  party  called  out,  “ Be  steady!  and  to- 
gether. One,  two!  Ground  arms,  boys!  Ground  arms!”  roared  he 
in  a voice  of  thunder;  “it’s  the  Captain  himself.”  Down  went 
the  muskets  with  a crash;  while,  springing  toward  me,  the  fel- 
lows caught  me  in  their  arms,  and  with  one  jerk  mounic  1 me 
upon  their  should ers-^the  cheer  that  accompanied  the  sudden 
movement  seeming  like  the  yell  of  maniacs.  “ Ha,  ha,  ha!  we 
have  him  now,”  sang  their  wild  voices:  as  with  blood-stained 
hands  and  infuriated  features,  they  bore  me  down  the  rampart. 
My  sensations  of  disgust  and  repugnance  to  the  party  seemed 
at  once  to  have  evidenced  themselves,  for  the  corporal,  turning 
abruptly  round,  called  out: 

“ Don’t  pity  him,  Captain;  the  scoundrel  was  a deserter;  he 
escaped  from  the  picket  two  nights  ago,  and  brought  informa- 
tion of  all  our  plans  to  the  enemy.” 

“ Ay,”  cried  another,  “ and  what’s  worse,  he  fired  through  an 
embrasure  near  the  breach,  for  two  hours,  upon  his  own  regi- 
ment. It  was  there  we  found  him:  this  way,  lads.” 

So  saying,  they  turned  short  from  the  walls,  and  dashed  down 
a dark  and  narrow  lane,  into  the  towm.  My  struggles  to  get  free 
were  perfectly  ineffectual,  and  to  my  entreaties  they  were  total- 
ly indifferent. 

In  this  way,  therefore,  we  made  our  way  into  the  Plaza, 
where  some  hundred  soldiers  of  different  regiments  were  bivou- 
acked. A shout  of  recognition  welcomed  the  fellows  as  they 


in 


CHARLES  mallet. 


came;  while,  suddenly  a party  of  the  Eighty-eighth  men,  spring- 
ing from  the  ground,  rushed  forward  with  drawn  bayonets,  cal'- 
ing  out:  Give  him  up,  this  minute  or  by  the  Father  of  Moses! 

we’ll  make  short  work  of  ye.’* 

The  order  was  made  by  men  who  seemed  well  disposed  to  ex- 
ecute it;  and  I was  accordingly  grounded  with  a shock  and  a 
rapidity  that  savored  much  more  of  ready  compliance  than  any 
respect  for  my  individual  comfort.  A roar  of  laughter  rang 
through  the  motley  mass,  and  every  powder -stained  face  around 
me  seemed  convulsed  with  merriment.  As  I sat  passively  upon 
the  ground,  looking  ruefully  about,  whether  my  gestures  or  my 
words  increased  the  absurdity  of  my  appearance,  it  is  hard  to 
say;  but  certainly  the  laughter  increased  at  each  moment,  and 
the  drunken  wretches  danced  around  me  in  ecstasy. 

“Where  is  your  Major?  Major  O’Shaughnessy,  lads,” 
said  I. 

“ He’s  in  the  church,  with  the  General,  your  honor,”  said  the 
sergeant  of  the  regiment,  upon  whom  the  mention  of  the 
officer’s  name  seemed  at  once  to  have  a sobering  influence. 
Assisting  me  to  rise  (for  I was  weak  as  a child),  he  led  me  through 
the  dense  crowd,  who,  such  is  the  influence  of  example,  now 
formed  into  line,  and,  as  well  as  their  state  permitted,  gave  me 
a military  salute  as  I passed.  “Follow  me,  sir,”  said  the  ser- 
geant; “this  little  dark  street  to  the  left  will  take  us  to  the 
private  door  of  the  chapel.” 

“ Wherefore  are  they  there,  sergeant?” 

“ There’s  a General  of  Division  mortally  wounded.” 

“You  did  not  hear  his  name?*’ 

“ No,  sir.  All  I know  is,  he  was  one  of  the  storming  party  at 
the  lesser  breach.” 

A cold,  sickening  shudder  came  over  me:  I dared  not  ask 
further,  but  pressed  on,  with  anxious  steps,  toward  the  chapel. 

“ There,  sir;  yonder  where  you  see  that  light;  that’s  the  door.” 

So  saying,  the  sergeant  stopped  suddenly  and  placed  his  hand 
to  his  cap.  I saw  at  once  that  he  was  sufficiently  aware  of  his 
condition  not  to  desire  to  appear  before  his  officers;  so,  hurriedly 
thanking  him,  I walked  forward. 

“ Halt  there!  and  give  the  countersign,”  cried  a sentinel  who, 
with  flxed  bayonet,  stood  before  the  door. 

“ I am  an  officer,”  said  I,  endeavoring  to  pass  in. 

“ Stand  back;  stand  back,”  said  the  harsh  voice  of  the  High- 
lander, for  such  he  was. 

“ Is  Major  O’Shaughnessy  in  the  church?” 

“I  dinna  ken,”  was  the  short,  rough  answer. 

“Who  is  the  officer  so  badly  wounded?” 

“ I dinna  ken,”  repeated  he,  as  gruffly  as  before;  while  he 
added  in  a louder  key,  “Stand  back,  I tell  ye,  mun:  dinna  ye 
see  the  staff  coming?” 

I turned  round  hastily,  and  at  the  same  instant  several  officers, 
who  apparently  from  precaution  had  dismounted  at  the  end  of  the 
street,  were  seen  approaching.  They  came  hurriedly  forward, 
but  without  speaking.  He  who  was  in  advance  of  the  party 
wore  a short  blue  cape  over  an  undress  uniform,  the  rest  were 


CHARLES  OAI ALLEY. 


175 


in  full  regimentals.  I had  scarcely  time  to  throw  a passing 
glance  upon  him,  when  the  officer  I have  mentioned  as  coming 
first  called  out,  in  a stern  voice: 

“ Who  are  you,  sir  ?” 

I started  at  the  sounds:  it  was  not  the  first  time  those  accents 
had  been  heard  by  me. 

“Captain  O’Malley,  Fourteenth  Light  Dragoons.” 

“ What  brings  you  here,  sir?  Your  regiment  is  at ” 

“I  have  been  employed  as  Acting  Aid-de-Camp  to  General 
Crawford,”  said  I,  hesitatingly. 

“ Is  that  your  staff  uniform  ?”  said  he,  as  with  compressed 
brow  and  stern  look  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  my  coat.  Before  I 
had  time  to  reply,  or  indeed  before  I well  knew  how  to  do  so,  a 
gruff  voice  from  behind  called  out: 

“ Damn  me!  if  that  ain’t  the  fellow  that  led  the  stormers 
through  a broken  embrasure.  I say,  my  lord,  that’s  the  yeoman 
I was  telling  you  of.  Is  it  not  so,  sir  ?”  continued  he,  turning 
toward  me. 

“ Yes,  sir;  I led  a party  of  the  Eighty-eighth  at  the  breach.” 

“And  devilish  well  you  did  it,  too!”  added  Picton,  for  it  was 
he  who  recognized  me.  “I  saw  him,  my  lord,  spring  down 
from  the  parapet  upon  a French  gunner,  and  break  his  sword  as 
he  cleft  his  helmet  in  two.  Yes,  yes;  I shall  not  forget  in  a 
hurry  how  you  laid  about  you  with  the  rammer  of  the  gun;  by 
Jove,  that’s  it  he  has  in  his  hand.” 

While  Picton  ran  thus  hurriedly  on.  Lord  Wellington’s  calm 
but  stern  features  never  changed  their  expression.  The  looks  of 
those  around  were  bent  upon  me  with  interest  and  even  admi- 
ration; but  his  evinced  nothing  of  either. 

Reverting  at  once  to  my  absence  from  my  post,  he  asked  me: 

“ Did  you  obtain  leave  for  a particular  service,  sir?” 

“No,  my  lord.  It  was  simply  from  an  accidental  circum- 
stance, that ’ . 

“ Then,  report  yourself  at  your  quarters  as  under  arrest.” 

“But,  my  lord,”  said  Picton.  Lord  Wellington  waited  not 
for  the  explanation,  but  walked  firmly  forward,  and  strode  into 
the  church.  The  staff  followed  in  silence,  Picton  turning  one 
look  of  kindness  on  me  as  he  went,  as  though  to  say,  “ I’ll  not 
forget  you.” 

“The  devil  take  it,”  cried  I,  as  I found  myself  once  more 
alone,  “but  I am  unlucky.  What  would  turn  out  with  other 
men  the  very  basis  of  their  fortune,  is  ever  with  me  the  source 
of  ill-luck,” 

It  was  evident,  from  Picton’s  account,  that  I had  distin- 
guished myself  in  the  breach;  and  yet  nothing  was  more  clear 
tlian  that  my  conduct  had  displeased  the  Commander-in-Chief. 
Picturing  him  ever  to  my  mind’s  eye  as  the  beau  ideal  of  a mili- 
tary leader,  by  some  fatality  of  fortune  I was  continually  in- 
curring his  displeasure,  for  whose  praise  I would  have  risked  my 
life.  And  this  confounded  costume — what,  in  the  name  of  every 
absurdity,  could  ever  have  persuaded  me  to  put  it  on  ? What 
signifies  it,  though  a man  should  cover  himself  with  glory,  if  in 
the  end  he  is  to  be  laughed  at  ? Well,  well!  it  matters  not  much. 


176 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


now  my  soldiering’s  over.  And  yet  I could  have  wished  that  the 
last  act  of  my  campaigning  had  brought  with  it  pleasanter  rec- 
ollections. 

As  thus  I ruminated,  the  click  of  the  soldier’s  musket  near 
aroused  me;  Picton  was  passing  out.  A shade  of  gloom  and 
desperation  was  visible  upon  his  features,  and  his  lip  trembled 
as  he  muttered  some  sentences  to  himself. 

“ Ha!  Captain I forget  the  name.  Yes — Captain  O’Mal- 

ley, you  are  released  from  arrest.  General  Crawford  has  spok- 
en very  well  of  you,  and  Lord  Wellington  has  heard  the  circum- 
stances of  your  case.” 

“Is  it  General  Crawford,  then,  that  is  wounded?”  said  I, 
eagerly. 

Picton  paused  for  a moment,  while  with  an  effort  he  con- 
trolled his  features  into  their  stern  and  impassive  expression; 
he  then  added  hurriedly  and  almost  harshly: 

“Yes,  sir;  badly  wounded  in  the  arm  and  in  the  lung.  He 
mentioned  you  to  the  notice  of  the  Commander-in-Chief,  and 
your  application  for  leave  is  granted;  in  fact,  you  are  to  have 
the  distinguished  honor  of  carrying  back  dispatches.  There, 
now,  you  had  better  join  your  brigade.” 

“Could I not  see  my  General  once  more?  It  may  be  for  the 
last  time.” 

“ No,  sir,”  sternly  replied  Picton.  “ Lord  Wellington  believes 
you  under  arrest.  It  is  as  well  he  should  suppose  you  obeyed 
his  orders.” 

There  was  a tone  of  sarcasm  in  these  words  that  prevented 
my  reply;  and,  muttering  my  gratitude  for  his  well-timed  and 
kindly  interference  in  my  behalf,  I bowed  deeply,  and  turned 
away. 

“ I say,  sir,”  said  Picton,  as  he  returned  toward  the  church, 
“should  anything  befall — that  is,  if,  unfortunately,  circum- 
stances should  make  you  in  want  and  desirous  of  a staff  ap- 
pointment, remember  that  you  are  known  to  General  Picton.” 

Downcast  and  depressed  by  the  news  of  my  poor  General,  I 
wended  my  way  with  slow  and  uncertain  steps  toward  the  ram- 
part. A cold,  wintry  sky,  and  a sharp,  bracing  air,  made  my 
wound  slight  as  it  was,  more  painful,  and  I endeavored  to  reach 
the  reserves,  where  I knew  the  hospital-staff  had  established, 
for  the  present,  their  quarters.  I had  not  gone  far  when,  from 
a marauding  party,  I learned  that  my  man.  Mike,  was  in  search 
of  me  through  the  plain.  A report  of  my  death  had  reached 
him,  and  the  poor  fellow  was  half  distracted. 

Longing  anxiously  to  allay  his  fears  on  my  account,  which  I 
well  knew  might  lead  him  into  any  act  of  folly  or  insanity,  I 
pressed  fc»rward;  besides,  shall  I confess  it,  that  amid  the  mani- 
fold thoughts  of  sorrow  and  affliction  which  w’eighed  me  down, 
I could  not  divest  myself  of  the  feeling,  that  so  long  as  I wore 
my  present  absurd  costume,  1 could  be  nothing  but  an  object  of 
laughter  and  ridicule  to  all  who  met  me. 

I had  not  long  to  look  for  my  worthy  follower,  for  I soon  be- 
held him  cantering  about  the  plain.  A loud  shout  brought  him 
beside  me;  and  truly  the  poor  fellow’s  delight  was  great  and 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


177 


sincere.  With  a thousand  protestations  of  his  satisfaction,  and 
reiterated  assurances  of  what  he  would  not  have  done  to  the 
French  prisoners,  if  anything  had  happened  to  me,  we  took  our 
way  together  toward  the  camp. 

# 


CHAPTER  CHI. 

THE  DISPATCH. 

I WAS  preparing  to  visit  the  town  on  the  following  morning, 
when  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a dialogue  which  took 
place  beneath  my  window. 

“I  say,  my  good  friend,”  cried  a mounted  orderly  to  Mike, 
who  was  busily  employed  in  brushing  a jacket — “ I say,  are  you 
Captain  O’Malley’s  man?” 

“ The  least  taste  in  life  o’  that  same,”  replied  he,  with  a half- 
jocular  expression. 

“ Well,  then,”  said  the  other,  ‘‘  take  up  these  letters  to  your 
master.  Be  alive,  my  fine  fellow,  for  they  are  dispatches,  and 
I must  have  a written  return  for  them.” 

“Won’t  ye  get  off  and  take  a drop  of  somethin’  refreshing? 
The  air  is  cowld  this  morning.” 

“I  can’t  stay,  my  good  friend,  but  thank  you  all  the  same; 
so  be  alive,  will  you  ?” 

“Arrah!  there’s  no  hurry  in  lifb.  Sure  it’s  an  invitation  to 
dinner  to  Lord  Wellington’s,  or  a tea-party  at  Sir  Denny’s;  sure 
my  master’s  bothered  with  them  every  day  o’  the  week.  That’s 
the  misfortune  of  being  an  agreeable  creature;  and  I’d  be  led 
into  dissipation  myself  if  I wasn't  raal  prudent.” 

“Well,  come  along,  take  those  letters,  for  I must  be  off;  my 
time  is  short.” 

“ That’s  more  than  your  nose  is,  honey,”  said  Mike,  evidently 
piqued  at  the  little  effect  his  advances  had  produced  upon  the 
Englishman.  “ Give  them  here,”  continued  he,  while  he  turned 
the  various  papers  in  every  direction,  affecting  to  read  their 
addresses, 

“ There’s  nothing  for  me  here,  I see.  Did  none  o’  the  generals 
ask  after  me  ?” 

“You  are  a queer  one,”  said  the  dragoon,  not  a little  puzzled 
what  to  make  of  him. 

Mike  meanwhile  thrust  the  papers  carelessly'  into  his  pocket, 
and  strode  into  the  house,  whistling  a quickstep  as  he  went, 
with  the  air  of  a man  perfectly  devoid  of  care  or  occupation. 
The  next  moment,  however,  he  appeared  at  my  door,  wiping  his 
forehead  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  and  apparently  breathless 
with  haste. 

“ Dispatches,  Misther  Charles.  Dispatches  from  Lord  Well- 
ington. The  orderly  is  waiting  below  for  a return.” 

“ Tell  him  he  shall  have  it  in  one  moment,”  replied  T;  “ and 
now  bring  me  a light.” 

Before  I had  broken  the  seal  of  the  envelope,  Mike  Avas  once 
more  at  the  porch. 

“My  masther  is  writing  a few  lines  to  say  he’ll  do  it.  Don’t 


178 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


be  talking  of  it,”  added  he,  dropping  his  voice;  ‘‘but they  want 
him  to  take  another  fortress.” 

What  turn  the  dialogue  subsequently  took  I cannot  say,  for  I 
was  entirely  occupied  by  a letter  which  accompanied  the  dis- 
pa^hes;  it  ran  as  follows: 

“Dear  Sir, — The  Commander-in- Chief  has  been  kind  enough 
to  accord  you  the  leave  of  absence  you  applied  for,  and  takes 
the  opportunity  of  your  return  to  England,  to  send  you  the  ac- 
companying letters  for  his  Royal  Highness,  the  Duke  of  York. 
To  his  approval  of  your  conduct  in  the  assault  of  last  night  you 
owe  this  distinguished  mark  of  Lord  Wellington’s  favor,  which 
I hope  will  be  duly  appreciated  by  you,  and  serve  to  increase 
your  zeal  for  that  service  in  which  you  have  already  dis- 
tinguished yourself. 

“ Believe  me  that  I am  most  happy  in  being  made  the  me- 
dium of  this  communication,  and  have  the  honor  to  be, 

“ Very  truly,  yours, 

“Quarter-General,  Picton. 

“ Ciudad  Rodrigo,  Jan.,  1812.” 

I read  and  re-read  this  note  again  and  again.  Every  line  was 
conned  over  by  me,  and  every  phrase  weighed  and  balanced  in 
my  mind.  Nothing  could  be  more  gratifying,  nothing  more 
satisfactory  to  my  feelings,  and  I would  not  have  exchanged  its 
possession  for  the  brevet  of  a lieutenant-colonel. 

“ Halloo,,  orderly,”  cried  I from  the  window,  as  I hurriedly 
sealed  my  few  words  of  acknowledgment,  “take  this  note  back 
to  General  Picton,  and  here’s  a guinea  for  yourself.”  So  saying 
I pitched  into  his  ready  hand  one  of  the  very  few  which  remain- 
ed to  me  in  the  world.  “This  is  indeed  good  news,”  said  I to 
myself;  “ this  is  indeed  a moment  of  unmixed  happiness.” 

As  I closed  the  window  I could  hear  Mike  pronouncing  a glow- 
ing eulogium  upon  my  liberality,  from  which  he  could  not,  how- 
ever, help  in  some  degree  detracting,  as  he  added,  “ But  the 
devil  thank  him  after  all;  sure  it’s  himself  has  the  illigant  fort- 
une and  the  fine  place  of  it.” 

Scarcely  were  the  last  sounds  of  the  retiring  horseman  dying 
away  in  the  distance,  when  Mike’s  meditations  took  another 
form,  and  he  muttered  between  his  teeth — “Oh!  holy  Agatha! 
a guinea,  a raal  guinea  to  a thief  of  a dragoon  that  come  with  the 
letter,  and  here  am  I wearing  a picture  of  the  holy  family  for 
a back  to  my  waistcoat,  all  out  of  economy;  and  sure,  God 
knows,  but  may  be  they’ll  take  their  dealing  trick  out  of  roe  in 
purgatory  for  this  hereafter;  and  faith,  it’s  a beautiful  pair  of 
breeches  I’d  have  had,  if  I wasn’t  ashamed  to  put  the  twelve 
disciples  on  my  legs.” 

While  Mike  ran  on  at  this  rate,  my  eyes  fell  upon  a few  lines 
of  postcript  in  Picton’s  letter,  which  I had  not  previously  no- 
ticed. 

“The  official  dispatches  of  the  storming  are  of  course  in- 
trusted to  senior  officers,  but  I need  scarcely  remind  you,  that  it 
will  be  a polite  and  a proper  attention  to  his  Royal  Highness,  to 


CHARLES  OAIALLEY.  11'9 

present  your  letters  with  as  little  delay  as  possible.  Not  a mo- 
ment is  to  be  lost  on  your  landing  in  England.” 

‘‘  Mike,”  cried  I,  “how  look  the  cattle  for  a journey  ?” 

“ The  chestnut  is  a little  low  in  flesh,  but  in  great  wind,  your 
honor;  and  the  black  mare  is  jumping  like  a filly.” 

“ And  Badger  ?”  said  I. 

“ Howld  him,  if  you  can,  that’s  all;  but  it’s  murthering  work 
this,  carrying  dispatches  day  after  day.” 

“ This  time,  however,  Mike,  we  must  not  grumble.” 

“ May  be  it  isn’t  far.” 

“ Why,  as  to  that,  I shall  not  promise  much.  I’m  bound  for 
England,  Mickey.” 

“ For  England!” 

“Yes,  Mike,  and  for  Ireland.” 

“ For  Ireland!  Whoopi”  shouted  he,  as  he  shied  his  cap  into 
one  corner  of  the  room,  the  jacket  he  was  brushing  into  the 
other,  and  began  dancing  round  the  table  with  no  bad  imitation 
of  an  Indian  war-dance. 

“ ‘ How  I’ll  dance  like  a fairy 
To  see  ould  Dunleary, 

And  think  twice  ere  I leave  it,  to  be  a dragoon.’ 

“ Oh!  blessed  hour!  isn't  it  beautiful  to  think  of  the  illumina- 
tions, and  dinners,  and  speeches,  and  shaking  of  hands,  huzzaing, 
and  hip,  hipping.  May  be  there  won’t  be  pictures  of  us  in  all  the 
shops — Misther  Charles  and  his  man,  Misther  Free.  May  be  they 
won’t  make  plays  out  of  us;  myself  dressed  in  the  gray  coat  with 
the  red  cuffs,  the  cords,  the  tops,  and  the  Caroline  hat  a little 
cocked,  with  the  phiz  in  the  side  of  it.”  Here  he  made  a sign 
with  his  expanded  fingers  to  represent  a cockade  which  he 
designated  by  this  word.  “I  think  I see  myself  dining  with  the 
Corporation,  and  the  Lord  Mayor  of  Dublin  getting  up  to  pro- 
pose the  health  of  the  hero  of  El  Boden,  Misther  Free!  and  three 
times  three,  hurrah!  hurrah!  hurrah!  Mush  a,  but  it’s  dry  I am 
gettin’  with  the  thoughts  of  the  punch  and  the  poteen  negus.” 

“ If  you  go  on  at  this  rate,  we’re  not  likely  to  be  soon  at  our 
journey’s  end;  so  be  alive  now,  pack  up  my  kit;  I shall  start  by 
twelve  o’clock.” 

With  one  spring  Mike  cleared  the  stairs,  and,  overthrowing 
everything  and  everybody  in  his  way,  hurried  toward  the  stable, 
chanting  at  the  top  of  his  voice  the  very  poetical  strain  he  had 
indulged  me  with  a few  minutes  before. 

My  preparations  were  rapidly  made;  a few  hurried  lines  of 
leave-taking  to  the  good  fellows  I had  lived  so  much  with  and 
felt  so  strongly  attached  to,  with  a firm  assurance  that  I should 
join  them  again  ere  long,  was  all  that  my  time  permitted.  To 
Power  I wrote  more  at  length,  detailing  the  circumstances 
which  my  own  letters  informed  me  of,  and  those  which  in- 
vited me  to  return  home.  This  done,  I lost  not  another  mo  - 
ment, but  set  out  upon  my  journey. 


l80 


CHARLES  a MALLEI 


CHAPTER  CIV. 

THE  LEAVE. 

After  an  hour’s  sharp  riding  we  reached  the  Aguada,  where 
the  river  was  yet  fordable;  crossing  this  we  mounted  the  Sierra 
by  a winding  and  narrow  pass  which  leads  through  the  mouut- 
ains  toward  Almeida.  Here  I turned  once  more  to  cast  a last 
and  farewell  look  at  the  scene  of  our  late  encounter.  It  was 
but  a few  hours  that  I had  stood  almost  on  the  same  spot,  and 
yet  how  altered  was  all  around.  The  wide  plain,  then  bustling 
with  all  the  life  and  animation  of  a large  army,  was  now  nearly 
deserted;  some  dismounted  guns,  some  broken -up  and  dis- 
mantled batteries,  around  which  a few  sentinels  seemed  to  loiter 
rather  than  to  keep  guard;  a strong  detachment  of  infantry 
could  be  seen  wending  their  way  toward  the  fortress,  and  a con- 
fused mass  of  camp  followers,  suttlers  and  peasants,  following 
their  steps  for  protection  against  the  pillagers,  and  the*  still  ruder 
assaults  of  their  own  guerrillas.  The  fortress,  too,  was  changed 
indeed.  Those  mighty  walls  before  whose  steep  sides  the 
bravest  fell  back  baffled  and  beaten,  were  now  a mass  of  ruin 
and  decay;  the  muleteer  could  be  seen  driving  his  mule  along 
through  the  rugged  ascent  of  that  breach,  to  win  whose  top  the 
best  blood  of  AMon’s  chivalry  was  shed;  and  the  peasant  child 
looked  timidly  from  those  dark  inclosures  into  the  deep  fosse 
below,  where  perished  hundreds  of  our  best  and  bravest.  The 
air  was  calm,  clear  and  unclouded;  no  smoke  obscured  the  trans- 
parent atmosphere;  the  cannon  had  ceased;  and  the  voices  that 
rang  so  late  in  accents  of  triumphant  victory  were  stilled  in 
death.  Everything,  indeed,  had  undergone  a mighty  change, 
but  nothing  brought  the  altered  fortunes  of  the  scene  so  vividly 
to  my  mind  as  when  I remembered  that  when  last  I had  seen 
those  walls,  the  dark  shako  of  the  French  grenadiers  peered 
above  their  battlements,  and  now  the  gay  tartan  of  the  High- 
lander fluttered  above  them,  and  the  red  flag  of  England  waved 
boldly  in  the  breeze. 

.Up  to  that  moment  my  sensations  were  those  of  unmixed 
pleasure;  the  thought  of  my  home,  my  friends,  my  country,  the 
feeling  that  I was  returning  with  the  bronze  of  the  battle  upon 
my  cheek,  and  the  voice  of  praise  still  ringing  in  my  lieart;  these 
were  proud  thoughts,  and  my  bosom  heaved  short  and  quickly 
as  I resolved  them;  but  as  I turned  my  gaze  for  the  last  time  to- 
ward the  gallant  army  I was  ieaving,  a pang  of  self-reproach 
shot  through  me,  and  I could  not  help  feeling  how  far  less 
worthily  was  I acting  in  yielding  to  the  impulse  of  my  wishes, 
than  had  I remained  to  share  the  fortunes  of  the  campaign. 

So  powerfully  did  these  sensations  possess  me  that  I sat  rno- 
tionless  for  some  time,  uncertain  whether  to  proceed;  forgetting 
that  I was  the  bearer  of  important  information,  I only  remem- 
bered that  by  my  own  desire  I was  there;  my  reason  but  half 
convinced  me  that  the  part  I had  adopted  was  right  and  honora- 
ble, and  more  than  once  my  resolution  to  proceed  hung  in  the 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


181 


balance.  It  was  just  at  this  critical  moment  of  my  doubts,  when 
Mike,  who  had  been  hitherto  behind,  came  up. 

“Is  it  the  upper  road,  sir?”  said  he,  pointing  to  a steep  and 
rugged  path,  which  led  by  a zigzag  ascent  toward  the  crest  of 
the  mountain.  . 

I nodded  in  reply,  when  he  added: 

“ Doesn’t  this  remind  your  honor  of  Sleibh  More  above  th^ 
Shannon,  where  we  used  to  be  grouse- shooting  ? and  there’s  the 
keeper’s  house  in  the  valley;  and  that  might  be  your  uncle,  the 
master  himself,  waving  his  hat  to  you.” 

Had  he  known  the  state  of  my  conflicting  feelings  at  the  mo- 
ment, he  could  not  more  readily  have  decided  tliis  doubt.  I 
turned  abruptly  away,  put  spurs  to  my  horse,  and  dashed  up  the 
steep  pass  at  a "pace  which  evidently  surprised,  and  as  evidently 
displeased  my  follower. 

How  natural  it  is'even  to  experience  a reaction  of  depression 
and  lowness  after  the  first  burst  of  unexpected  joy;  the  moment 
of  happiness  is  scarce  exj)erienced  ere  come  the  doubts  of  its 
reality,  the  fears  for  its  continuance;  the  higher  the  state  of 
pleasurable  excitement,  the  more  painful  and  the  more  pressing 
the  anxieties  that  await  on  it;  the  tension  of  delighted  feelings 
cannot  last,  and  our  overwrought  faculties  seek  repose  in  re- 
grets. Happy  he  who  can  so  temper  his  enjoyments  as  to  view 
them  in  their  shadows  as  in  their  sunshine;  he  may  not,  it  is 
true,  behold  the  landscape  in  the  blaze  of  its  noonday  bright- 
ness; but  he  need  not  fear  the  thunder- cloud  nor  the  hurricane. 
The  calm  autumn  of  Ms  bliss,  if  it  dazzle  not  in  its  brilliancy, 
will  not  any  more  be  shrouded  in  darkness  and  in  gloom. 

My  first  burst  of  pleasure  over,  the  thought  of  my  uncle’s 
changed  fortunes  pressed  deeply  on  my  heart,  and  a hundred 
plans  suggested  themselves  in  turn  to  my  mind  to  relieve  his 
present  embarrassments;  but  I knew  how  impracticable  they 
would  all  prove  when  opposed  by  his  prejudices.  To  sell  tiie 
old  home  of  his  forefathers,  to  wander  from  the  roof  which  had 
sheltered  his  name  for  generations,  he  would  never  consent  to; 
the  law  might  by  force  expel  him,  and  drive  him  a wanderer 
and  an  exile,  but  of  his  own  free  will  the  thing  was  hopeless. 
Considine,  too,  would  encourage  rather  than  repress  such  feel- 
ings; his  feudalism  would  lead  him  to  any  lengths,  and,  in  de- 
fense of  what  he  would  esteem  a right,  he  would  as  soon  shoot 
a sheriff  as  a snipe,  and,  old  as  he  was,  ask  for  no  better  amuse- 
ment than  to  arm  the  whole  tenantry  and  give  battle  to  the 
king’s  troops.on  the  wide  plain  of  Scariff.  Amid  such  conflicting 
thoughts,  I traveled  on  moodily  and  in  silence,  to  the  palpable 
astonishment  of  Mike,  who  could  not  help  regarding  me  as  one 
from  whom  fortune  met  the  most  ungrateful  returns.  At  every 
new  turn  of  the  road  he  would  endeavor  to  attract  my  attention 
by  the  objects  around;  no  white  turreted  chateau,  no  tapered 
spire  in  the  distance  escaped  him;  he  kept  up  a constant  ripple 
of  half- muttered  praise  and  censure  upon  all  he  saw,  and  insti- 
tuted unceasing  comparisons  between  the  country  and  his  own, 
in  which,  I am  bound  to  say,  Ireland  rarely,  if  ever,  had  to  com 
plain  of  his  patriotism. 


182 


CHARLES  a M ALLEY. 


When  we  arrived  at  Almeida,  I learned  that  the  Medea  sloop 
of  war  was  lying  off  Oporto,  and  expected  to  sail  for  England  in 
a few  days.  The  opportunity  was  not  to  be  neglected;  the  offi- 
cial dispatches  I was  aware  would  be  sent  through  Lisbon,  where 
the  Gordon  frigate  was  in  waiting  to  convey  them;  but,  should 
I be  fortunate  enough  to  reach  Oporto  in  time,  I had  little  doubt 
of  arriving  in  England  with  the  first  intelligence  of  the  fall  of 
Ciudad  Rodrigo.  Reducing  my  luggage,  therefore,  to  the  smallest 
possible  compass,  and  having  provided  myself  with  a juvenile 
guide  for  the  pass  of  La  Regna,  I threw  myself,  without  undress  - 
ing, upon  the  bed,  and  waited  anxiously  for  the  break  of  day  to 
resume  my  journey. 

As  I ruminated  over  the  prospect  my  return  presented,  I sud- 
denly remembered  Frank  Webber’s  letter,  which  I had  hastily 
thrust  into  a portfolio  without  reading,  so  occupied  was  I b}' 
Considine’s  epistle;  with  a little  searching  I discovered  it,  and, 
trimming  my  lamp,  as  I felt  no  inclination  to  sleep,  I proceeded 
to  the  examination  of  what  seemed  a more  than  usually  volum- 
inous epistle.  It  contained  four  closely  written  pages,  accom- 
panied by  something  like  a plan  in  an  engineering  sketch.  My 
curiosity  becoming  further  stimulated  by  this,  I sat  down  to 
peruse  it.  It  began  thus: 

“Official  Dispatch  of  Lieutenant-General  Francis  Webber,  to 
Lord  Castlereagh;  detailing  the  assaults  and  capture  of  the  old 
pump  in  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  on  the  night  of  the  second  of 
December,  eighteen  hundred  and  eleven,  with  returns  of 
killed,  wounded  and  missing;  with  other  information  from  the 
seat  of  war. 


“Headquarters,  No.  2 Old  Square. 

“ My  Lord, — Incompliance  with  the  instructions  contained 
in  your  lordship's  dispatch,  of  the  twenty -first  ultimo,  I concen- 
trated the  force  under  my  command,  and,  assembling  the  Gen- 
erals of  Division,  made  known  my  intentions  in  the  following 
General  Order: 

“A.  G.  O. 

“The  following  troops  will,  this  evening,  assemble  at  Head- 
quarters, and,  having  partaken  of  a sufficient  dinner  for  the 
next  two  days,  with  punch  for  four,  will  hold  themselves  in 
readiness  to  march,  in  the  following  order: 

“ Harry  Nesbitt’s  brigade  of  incorrigibles  will  form  a blockad- 
ing force,  in  the  line  extending  from  the  Vice-Provost’s  house  to 
the  library.  The  light  division,  under  Mark  Waller,  will  skir- 
mish from  the  gate  toward  the  middle  of  the  square,  obstructing 
the  march  of  the  cuirassiers  of  the  guard,  which,  under  the 
cbmmand  of  old  Duncan,  the  porter,  are  expected  to  move  in 
that  direction.  Two  columns  of  attack  will  be  formed  by  the 
senior  sophisters  of  the  old  guard,  and  a forlorn  hope  of  the 
‘ cautioned  ’ men  at  the  last  four  examinations  will  form,  under 
the  order  of  Timothy  O’Rourke,  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  din- 
ing-hall. 

“ At  the  signal  of  the  Dean’s  bell  the  stormers  will  move  for- 


CHARLES  SMALLEY.  188 

ward.  A cheer  from  the  united  corps  will  then  announce  the 
moment  of  attack. 

“The  word  for  the  night  will  be,  ‘ May  the  devil  admire  me!’ 

“ The  commander  of  the  forces  desires  that  the  different  coi-ps 
should  be  as  strong  as  possible,  and  expects  that  no  man  will 
remain,  on  any  pretense  whatever,  in  the  rear,  with  the  lush. 
During  the  main  assault,  Cecil  Cavendish  will  make  a feint  upon 
the  provost’s  windows,  to  be  converted  into  a real  attack  if  the 
ladies  scream. 

“ General  Order. 

“ The  Commissary  “General  Foley  will  supply  the  following 
articles  for  the  use  of  the  troops:  Two  hams,  eight  pair  of 
chickens,  the  same  to  be  roasted;  a deviled  turkey;  sixteen 
lobsters;  eight  hundred  of  oysters,  with  a proportionate  quan- 
tity of  cold  sherry  and  hot  punch. 

“ The  army  will  get  drunk  by  ten  o’clock  to-night. 

“ Having  made  these  dispositions,  my  lord,  I proceeded  to 
mislead  the  enemy  as  to  our  intentions,  in  suffering  my  servant 
to  be  taken  with  an  intercepted  dispatch.  This,  being  a pre- 
scription by  Dr.  Colles,  would  convey  to  the  Dean’s  mind  that  I 
am  still  upon  the  sick  list.  This  being  done,  and  four  canisters  of 
Dartford  gunpowder  being  procured  on  tick,  our  military  chest 
being  in  a deplorable  condition,  I waited  for  the  moment  of 
attack. 

“ A heavy  rain,  accompanied  wnth  a frightful  hurricane, 
prevailed  during  the  entire  day,  rendering  the  march  of  the 
troops  who  came  from  the  neighborhood  of  Merrion  square  and 
Fitz william  street,  a service  of  considerable  fatigue.  The  out- 
lying pickets  in  College  green,  being  induced  probably  by  the 
inclemency  of  the  season,  were  rather  tipsy  on  joining,  and 
having  engaged  in  a skirmish  with  old  M’Callister,  tying  his 
red  uniform  over  his  head,  the  moment  of  attack  was  precipi- 
tated. and  we  moved  to  the  trenches  by  half  past  nine  o’clock. 

“Nothing  could  be  more  orderly,  nothing  more  perfect,  than 
the  march  of  the  troops.  As  we  approached  the  corner  of  the 
commons’  hall  a skirmish  on  the  rear  apprised  us  that  our  in- 
tentions had  become  known ; and  I soon  learned  from  my  aid- 
de-camp,  Bob  Moore,  that  the  attack  was  made  by  a strong 
column  of  the  enemy  under  command  of  old  Fitzgerald. 

“Perpendicular  (as  your  lordship  is  aware  he  is  styled  by  the 
army)  came  on  in  a determined  manner,  and  before  many  min- 
utes had  elapsed  had  taken  several  prisoners,  among  others  Tom 
Drummond — Long  Tom — who,  having  fallen  on  all-fours,  was 
mistaken  for  a long  eighteen.  The  success,  however,  was  but 
momentary;  Nesbitt’s  brigade  attacked  them  in  flank,  rescued 
the  prisoners,  extinguished  the  dean’s  lantern,  and  having  beaten 
back  the  heavy  porters,  took  Perpendicular  himself  prisoner. 

“ An  express  from  the  left  informed  me  that  the  attack  upon 
the  provost’s  house  had  proved  equally  successful;  there  wasn’t 
a whole  pane  of  glass  in  the  front,  and  from  a footman  who 
deserted  it  was  learned  that  Mrs.  Hutchinson  was  in  hysterics. 

“While  I was  reading  this  dispatch,  a strong  feeling  of  tlie 
line  toward  the  right  announced  that  something  was  taking 


184 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


place  in  that  direction.  Bob  Moore,  who  rode  by  on  Brnm* 
mond’s  back,  hurriedly  informed  me  that  Williams  had  put  the 
hghted  end  of  his  cigar  to  one  of  the  fuses,  but  the  powder,  being 
wet,  did  not  explode,  notwithstanding  his  efforts  to  effect  it. 
Upon  this  I hastened  to  the  front,  where  I found  the  individual 
in  question  kneeling  upon  the  ground,  and  endeavoring,  as  far 
as  punch  would  permit  him,  to  kindle  a flame  at  the  port  fire. 
Before  I could  interfere,  the  spark  had  caught;  a loud  hissing 
noise  followed;  the  different  magazines  successively  became 
ignited,  and  at  length  the  fire  reached  the  great  four -pound 
charge. 

“ I cannot  convey  to  your  lordship,  by  any  words  of  mine,  an 
idea  of  this  terrible  explosion;  the  blazing  splinters  were  hurled 
into  the  air  and  fell  in  fiery  masses  on  every  side  from  the  park 
to  King  William;  Ivey,  the  bell-ringer,  was  precipitated  from 
the  scaffold  beside  the  bell,  and  fell  headlong  into  the  mud 
beneath;  the  surrounding  buildings  trembled  at  the  shock;  the 
windows  were  shattered,  and  in  fact  a scene  of  perfect  devasta- 
tion ensued  on  all  sides. 

“ When  the  smoke  cleared  away  I rose  from  my  recumbent 
position,  and  perceived  with  delight  that  not  a vestige  of  the 
pump  remained.  The  old  iron  handle  was  imbedded  in  the  wall 
of  the  dining-hall,  and  its  round  knob  stood  out  like  the  end  of 
a queue. 

“ Our  loss  was,  of  course,  considerable;  and,  ordering  the 
wounded  to  the  rear,  I proceeded  to  make  an  orderly  and  regu- 
lar retreat.  At  this  time,  however,  the  enemy  had  assembled  in 
force.  Two  battalions  of  porters,  led  bn  by  Dr.  Dobbin,  charged 
us  on  the  flank;  a heavy  brigade  poured  down  upon  us  from  the 
oattery,  and,  but  for  the  exertions  of  Harry  Nesbitt,  our  com- 
munications with  our  reserves  must  have  been  cut  off.  Cecil 
Cavendish  also  came  up;  for,  although  beaten  in  his  great  attack, 
the  forces  under  his  command  had  penetrated  by  the  kitchen 
windows,  and  carried  off  a considerable  quantity  of  cold  meat. 

‘‘  Concentrating  the  different  corps,  I made  an  echelon  move- 
ment upon  the  chapel,  to  permit  of  the  light  division  coming  up. 
This  they  did  in  a few  moments,  informing  me  that  they  had 
left  Perpendicular  in  the  haha,  which,  as  your  lordship  is  aware, 
is  a fosse  of  the  very  greenest  and  most  stagnant  nature.  We 
now  made  good  our  retreat  upon  number  two,  carrying  our 
wounded  with  us;  the  plunder  we  also  secured,  but  we  kicked 
the  prisoners  and  suffered  them  to  escape. 

“ Thus  terminated,  my  lord,  one  of  the  brightest  achievements 
of  the  under-graduate  career.  I inclose  a list  of  the  wounded, 
as  also  an  account  of  the  various  articles  returned  in  the  Com- 
missary-General’s list. 

‘‘Harry  Nesbitt;  severely  wounded;  no  coat  nor  hat;  a black 
eye;  left  shoe  missing. 

“ Cecil  Cavendish;  face  severely  scratched;  supposed  to  have 
received  his  wound  in  the  attack  upon  the  kitchen. 

'‘Tom  Drummond;  not  recognizable  by  his  friends;  his  feat- 
ures resembling  a transparency  disfigured  by  the  smoke  of  the 
preceding  night’s  illumination* 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


185 


**  Bob  Moore;  slightly  wounded. 

‘‘  I would  beg  particularly  to  recommend  all  these  officers  to 
your  lordship's  notice;  indeed,  the  conduct  of  Moore,  in  kick- 
ing the  dean’s  lantern  out  of  the  porter’s  hand,  was  marked  by 
great  promptitude  and  decision.  This  officer  will  present  to  H. 
R.  H.  the  following  trophies,  taken  from  the  enemy.  The 
dean’s  cap  and  tassel;  the  key  of  his  chamber;  Dobbin’s  wig  and 
oands;  four  porters’  helmets,  and  a book  on  the  cella. 

“ I have  the  honor  to  remain,  my  lord,  &c. 

O.  - 

“The  commander  of  the  forces  returns  his  thanks  to  the 
various  officers  and  soldiers  employed  in  the  late  assault,  for  their 
perseverance,  gallantry  and  courage.  The  splendor  of  the 
ichievement  can  only  be  equaled  by  the  humanity  and  good 
conduct  of  the  troops."  It  only  remains  for  me  to  add,  that  the 
less  they  say  about  the  transaction,  and  the  sooner  they  are 
severally  confined  to  their  beds  with  symptoms  of  contagious 
fever,  the  better. 

“Meanwhile,  to  concert  upon  the  future  measures  of  the 
campaign,  the  army  will  sup  to-night  at  Morison's.” 

Here  ended  this  precious  epistle,  rendering  one  fact  sufficiently 
evident — that,  however  my  worthy  friend  had  advanced  in  years, 
he  had  not  grown  in  wisdom. 

While  ruminating  upon  the  strange  infatuation  which  could 
persuade  a gifted  and  able  man  to  lavish  upon  dissipation  and 
reckless  absurdity  the  talents  that  must,  if  well  directed,  raise 
him  to  eminence  and  distinction,  a few  lines  of  a newspaper 
paragraph  fell  from  the  paper  I was  reading  It  ran  thus: 

“LATE  OUTRAGE  IN  TRINITY  COLLEGE,  DUBLIN. 

“ We  have  great  pleasure  in  stating  that  the  serious  disturb- 
ances which  took  place  within  the  walls  of  our  university  a few 
evenings  since  was  in  no  wise  attributable  to  the  conduct  of  the 
students.  A party  of  ill-disposed  townspeople  were,  it  would  • 
appear,  the  instigators  and  perpetrators  of  the  outrage.  That 
their  object  was  the  total  destruction  of  our  venerated  univer- 
sity, there  can  be  but  little  doubt.  Fortunately,  however,  they 
did  not  calculate  upon  the  esprit  de  corps  of  the  students,  a body 
of  whom,  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  Webber,  successfully  op- 
posed the  assailants,  and  finally  drove  them  from  the  walls. 

“ It  is,  we  understand,  the  intention  of  the  board  to  confer 
some  mark  of  approbation  upon  Mr.  Webber,  who,  independent- 
ly of  this,  has  strong  claims  upon  their  notice,  his  collegiate  suc- 
cess pointing  him  out  as  the  most  extraordinary  man  of  his  day.” 

“ This,  my  dear  Charley,  will  give  you  some  faint  conception 
of  one  of  the  most  brilliant  exploits  of  modern  days.  The  bul- 
letin, believe  me,  is  not  Napoleonized  into  any  bombastic  extrava- 
gance of  success.  The  thing  was  splendid;  from  the  brilliant 
firework  of  the  old  pump  itself  to  the  figure  of  Perpendicular 
dripping  with  duckweed,  like  an  insane  river  god,  it  was  un- 
equaled. Our  fellows  behaved  like  trumps,  and,  to  do  them 
justice,  so  did  the  enemy.  But  unfortunately,  notwithstanding 


186 


CHARLES  MALLET, 


this,  and  the  plausible  paragraphs  of  the  morning  papers,  I have 
been  summoned  before  the  board  for  Tuesday  next. 

“ Meanwhile,  I employ  myself  in  throwing  off  a shower  of 
small  squibs  for  the  journals,  so  that  if  the  board  dealt  not  mer- 
cifully with  me,  I may  meet  with  sympathy  from  the  public.  I 
have  just  dispatched  a little  editorial  bit  for  The  Times,  calling, 
in  terms  of  parental  tenderness,  upon  the  university  to  say: 

‘ How  long  will  the  extraordinary  excesses  of  a learned 
functionary  be  suffered  to  disgrace  college  ? Is  Dr.  * * * * to 
be  permitted  to  exhibit  an  example  of  more  riotous  insubordina- 
tion than  would  be  endured  in  an  undergraduate  ? More  on  this 
subject  hereafter.’ 

Saunders'  Newsletter, — Dr.  Barrett  appeared  at  the  head 
police  office,  before  Alderman  Dailey,  to  make  oath  that  neither. 
he  nor  Catty  was  concerned  in  the  late  outrage  upon  the 
pump,’  &c.,  &c. 

“Paragraphs  like  these  are  flying  about  every  provincial 
paper  of  the  empire.  People  shake  their  heads  when  they  speak 
of  the  university,  and  respectable  females  rather  cross  over 
by  King  William  and  the  bank  than  pass  near  its  precincts. 

“ Tuesday  Evening. 

“Would  you  believe  it,  they’ve  expelled  me!  Address  your 
next  letter  as  usual , for  they  haven’t  got  rid  of  me  yet. 

“ Yours,  F.  W.” 

So,  I shall  find  him  at  his  old  quarters,  thought  I,  and  evidently 
not  much  altered  since  we  parted.  It  was  not  without  a feeling 
of  (I  trust  pardonable)  pride,  that  I thought  over  my  own  case  in 
the  interval.  My  three  years  of  campaigning  life  had  given  me 
some  insight  into  the  world,  and  some  knowledge  of  myself,  and 
conferred  upon  me  a boon,  of  which  I know  not  the  equal;  that 
while  yet  young,  and  upon  the  very  threshold  of  life,  I should 
have  tasted  the  enthusiastic  pleasures  of  a soldier’s  fortune,  and 
braved  the  dangers  and  difficulties  of  a campaign  at  a time  when, 
under  other  auspices,  I might  have  wasted  my  years  in  unprofit- 
able idleness  or  careless  dissipation. 


CHAPTER  CV. 

LONDON. 

Twelve  hours  after  my  arrival  in  England,  I entered  London. 
I cannot  attempt  to  record  the  sensations  which  thronged  my 
mind,  as  the  din  and  tumult  of  that  mighty  city  awoke  me  from 
a sound  sleep  I had  fallen  into  in  the  corner  of  the  chaise.  The 
seemingly  interminable  lines  of  lamp- light,  the  crash  of  car- 
riages, the  glare  of  the  shops,  the  buzz  of  voices,  made  up  a 
chaotic  mass  of  sights  and  sounds,  leaving  my  efforts  at  thought 
vain  and  fruitless. 

Obedient  to  my  instructions,  I lost  not  a moment  in  my  prep- 
arations to  deliver  my  dispatches.  Having  dressed  myself  in 
the  full  uniform  of  my  corps,  I drove  to  the  Horse  Guards.  It 
was  now  nine  o’clock,  and  I learned  that  kis  Royal  Highness 
had  gone  to  dinner  at  Carlton  House.  In  a few  words  which  I 


CHARLt^S  O^MALLEV 


187 


spoke  with  the  aid-de-camp,  I discovered  that  no  information  of 
the  fall  of  Ciudad  Rodrigo  had  yet  reached  England.  The 
greatest  anxiety  prevailed  as  to  the  events  of  the  Peninsula, 
from  which  no  dispatches  had  been  received  for  several  weeks 
past. 

To  Calton  House  I accordingly  bent  my  steps  without  any 
precise  determination  how  I should  proceed  when  there,  not 
knowing  how  far  etiquette  might  be  an  obstacle  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  my  mission.  The  news  of  which  I was  the  bearer 
was,  however,  of  too  important  a character  to  permit  me  to  hes- 
itate, and  I presented  myself  to  the  aid-de-camp  in  waiting, 
•iimply  stating  that  I was  intrusted  with  important  letters  to  his 
Royal  Highness,  the  purport  of  which  did  not  admit  of  delay. 

“They  have  not  gone  to  dinner  yet,”  lisped  out  the  aid-de- 
camp,  “ and  if  you  would  permit  me  to  deliver  the  letters ” 

“Mine  are  dispatches,”  said  I,  somew^hat  proudly,  and  in  no 
wise  disposed  to  cede  to  another  the  honor  of  personally  deliver- 
ing them  into  the  hands  of  the  Duke. 

“Then  you  had  better  present- yourself  at  the  levee  to-morrow 
morning,”  replied  he,  carelessly,  while  he  turned  into  one  of  the 
window  recesses,  and  resumed  the  conversation  with  one  of  the 
gentlemen  in  waiting. 

I stood  for  some  moments  uncertain  and  undecided,  reluctant 
on  the  one  part  to  relinquish  my  claim  as  the  bearer  of  dis- 
patches, and  equally  unwilling  to  defer  the  delivery  till  the 
following  day. 

Adopting  the  former  alternative,  I took  my  papers  from  my 
sabertasch,  and  was  about  to  place  them  in  the  hands  of  the  aid- 
de-camp,  when  the  folding-doors  at  the  end  of  the  apartment 
suddenly  flew  open  and  a large  and  handsome  man,  with  a high, 
bold  forehead,  entered  hastily. 

The  different  persons  in  waiting  sprung  from  their  lounging 
attitudes  upon  the  sofa,  and  bowed  respectfully  as  he  passed  on 
toward  another  door.  His  dress  was  a plain  blue  coat,  buttoned 
to  the  collar,  and  his  only  decoration,  a brilliant  star  upon  the 
breast.  There  was  that  air,  however,  of  high  birth  and  bearing 
about  him,  that  left  no  doubt  upon  my  mind  he  was  of  the 
blood  royal. 

As  the  aid-de-camp  to  whom  I had  been  speaking  opened  the 
door  for  him  to  pass  out,  I could  hear  some  words  in  a low  voice, 
in  which  the  phrases  of  “ letters  of  importance  and  your  Royal 
Highness,”  occurred.  ^ The  individual  addressed  turned  sud- 
denly about,  and  casting  a rapid  glance  around  the  room, 
without  deigning  a word  in  reply,  walked  straight  up  to  where 
I was  standing. 

“ Dispatches  for  me,  sir,”  said  he  shortly,  taking,  as  he  spoke, 
the  packet  from  my  hand. 

“For his  Royal  Highness,  the  Commander-in- Chief,”  said  I, 
bowing  respectfully,  and  still  uncertain  in  whose  presence  I was 
standing.  He  broke  the  seal  without  answering,  and,  as  his  eye 
caught  the  first  lines  of  the  dispatch,  broke  out  with  an  excla- 
mation of: 

“ Ha!  Penimsular  news!  When  did  you  arrive,  sir?” 


188 


Cn ARLES  lit  ALLEY. 


“An  hour  since,  sir.” 

“And  these  letters  are  from ” 

“General  Pic  ton,  your  Royal  Highness.” 

“ How  glorious — how  splendidly  done!”  muttered  he  to  him- 
self, as  he  ran  his  eye  over  the  letter. 

“ Are  you  Captain  O’Malley,  whose  name  is  mentioned  here  so 
favorably  ?” 

I bowed  deeply  in  reply. 

“ You  are  most  highly  spoken  of,  and  it  will  give  me  sincere 
pleasure  to  recommend  you  to  the  notice  of  the  Prince  Regent. 
But  stay  a moment.”  So  saying,  hurriedly  he  passed  from  the 
room,  leaving  me  overwhelmed  at  the  suddenness  of  the  inci- 
dent, and  a mark  of  no  small  astonishment  to  the  different  per- 
sons in  waiting,  who  had  hitherto  no  other  idea,  but  that  my 
dispatches  were  from  Hounslow  or  Knight’s  bridge. 

“ Captain  O’Malley,”  said  g,n  officer  covered  with  decorations, 
and  whose  slightly  foreign  accent  bespoke  the  Hanoverian,  “his 
Royal  Highness  requests  you  will  accompany  me.”  The  door 
opened  as  he  spoke,  and  I found  myself  in  a most  splendidly 
lit-up  apartmentt  the  walls  covered  with  pictures,  and  the  ceil- 
ing divided  into  panels,  resplendent  with  the  richest  gilding.  A 
group  of  persons  in  court-dresses  were  conversing  in  a low  tone 
as  we  entered,  but  suddenly  ceased,  and,  saluting  my  conductor 
respectfully,  made  way  for  us  to  pass  on.  The  folding-doors 
again  opened  as  we  approached,  and  we  found  ourselves  in  a 
long  gallery,  whose  sumptuous  furniture  and  costly  decorations 
shone  beneath  the  rich  tints  of  a massive  luster  of  ruby  glass, 
diffusing  a glow  resembling  the  most  gorgeous  sunset.  Here 
also  some  persons  in  handsome  uniforms  were  conversing,  one 
of  whom  accosted  my  companion  by  the  title  of  “ Baron,”  nod- 
ding familiarly  as  he  muttered  a "few  words  in  German;  he 
passed  forward,  and  the  next  moment  the  doors  were  thrown 
suddenly  wide,  and  we  entered  the  drawing-room. 

The  buzz  of  voices  and  the  sound  of  laughter  reassured  me  as 
I came  forwrard,  and,  before  I had  well  time  to  think  where  and 
why  I was  there,  the  Duke  of  York  advanced  toward  me,  with 
a smile  of  peculiar  sweetness  in  its  expression,  and  said,  as  he 
turned  toward  one  side: 

“ Your  Royal  Highness — Captain  O’Malley!” 

As  he  spoke,  the  Prince  moved  forw^ard,  and  bowed  slightly. 

“ You’ve  brought  us  capital  news,  Mr.  O'Malley.  May  I beg, 
if  you’re  not  too  much  tired,  you’d  join  us  at  dinner?  I am  most 
anxious  to  learn  the  particulars  of  the  assault.” 

As  I bowed  my  acknowledgment  to  the  gracious  invitation,  he 
continued: 

“ Are  you  acquainted  with  your  countryman— but  of  course 
you  can  scarcely  be — you  began  too  early  as  a soldier.  So  let  me 
present  you  to  my  friend,  Mr.  Burke,”  a middle-aged  man, 
whose  broad  white  forehead  and  deep-set  eyes  evinced  the  char- 
acter of  features  that  w^ere  otherwise  not  remarkable  in  expres- 
sion, who  bowed  somewhat  stiffly. 

Before  he  had  concluded  a somewhat  labored  compliment  to 
me,  we  were  joined  by  a third  person,  whose  strikingly  hand- 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


189 


some  features  were  lit  up  with  an  expression  of  the  most  ani- 
mated kind.  He  accosted  the  Prince  with  an  air  of  easy 
familiarity,  and  while  he  led  him  from  the  group,  appeared  to 
be  relating  some  anecdote,  which  actually  convulsed  his  Royal 
Highness  with  laughter. 

Before  I had  time  or  opportunity  to  inquire  who  the  individual 
could  be,  dinner  was  announced,  and  the  wide  folding-doors 
being  thrown  open,  displayed  the  magnificent  dining  room 
of  Carlton  House  in  all  the  blaze  and  splendor  of  its  magnifi- 
cence. 

The  sudden  change  from  the  rough  vicissitudes  of  campaign- 
ing-life to  all  the  luxury  and  voluptuous  elegance  of  a brilliant 
court,  created  too  much  confusion  in  my  mind  to  permit  of  my 
impressions  being  the  most  accurate  or  most  collected.  The 
splendor  of  the  scene,  the  rank,  but,  even  more,  the  talent  of 
individuals  by  whom  I was  surrounded,  had  all  their  full  effect 
upon  me;  and,  although  I found,  from  the  tone  of  the  conversa- 
tion about,  how  immeasurably  I was  their  inferior,  yet,  by  a 
delicate  and  courteous  interest  in  the  scene  of  which  I had  lately 
partaken,  they  took  away  the  awkwardness  which,  in  some 
degree,  was  inseparable  from  the  novelty  of  my  position  among 
them. 

Conversing  about  the  Peninsula  with  a degree  of  knowledge 
which  I could  in  no  wise  comprehend  from  those  not  engaged 
in  the  war,  they  appeared  perfectly  acquainted  with  all  the  de- 
tails of  the  campaign;  and  I heard  on  every  side  of  me  anec- 
dotes and  stories  which  I scarcely  believed  known  beyond  the 
precincts  of  a regiment.  The  Prince  himself,  the  grace  and  charm 
ot  whose  narrative  talents  have  never  been  excelled,  was  partic- 
ularly conspicuous,  and  I could  not  help  feeling  struck  with  his 
admirable  imitations  of  voice  and  manner;  the  most  accom- 
plished actor  could  not  have  personated  the  cannie,  calculating 
spirit  of  the  Scot,  nor  the  rollicking  recklessness  of  the  Irishman, 
with  more  tact  and  finesse.  But  far  above  all  this  shone  the 
person  I have  already  alluded  to  as  speaking  to  his  Royal  High- 
ness in  the  drawing-room.  Combining  the  happiest  conversa- 
tional eloquence  with  a quick,  ready  and  brilliant  fancy,  he  threw 
from  him,  in  all  the  careless  profusion  of  boundless  resources,  a 
shower  of  pointed  and  epigrammatic  witticisms;  no^v  illustrat- 
ing a really  difficult  subject  by  one  happy  touch,  as  the  blaze  of 
the  lightning  will  light  up  the  whole  surface  of  the  dark  landscape 
beneath  it;  now  turning  the  force  of  an  adversary’s  argument 
by  some  fallacious  but  unanswerable  jest — accompanying  the 
whole  by  those  fascinations  of  voice,  look,  gesture  and  manner 
which  have  made  those  who  once  have  seen,  never  able  to  for- 
get, Brinsley  Sheridan, 

I am  not  able,  were  I even  disposed,  to  record  more  particu- 
larly the  details  of  that  most  brilliant  evening  of  my  life.  On 
every  side  of  me  .1  heard  the  names  of  those  whose  fame  as 
statesmen,  or  whose  repute  as  men  of  letters,  was  ringing 
throughout  Europe;  they  were  then,  too,  not  in  the  easy 
indolence  of  ordinary  life,  but  displaying  with  their  utmost 
enort  those  powers  of  wit,  fancy,  imagination  and  eloquence 


i90 


CHARLES  aMALLEY 


which  had  won  for  them  elsewhere  their  high  and  exalted 
position,  The  masculine  understanding  and  powerful  intellect 

of vied  with  the  brilliant  and  dazzling  conceptions  of 

Sheridan;  the  easy  bonhomie  and  English  heartiness  of  Fox 
contrasted  with  the  cutting  sarcasm  and  sharp  raillery  of 
Erskine,  while,  contending  the  palm  with  each  himself,  the 
Prince  evinced  powers  of  mind  and  eloquent  facilities  of  ex- 
pression that,  in  any  walk  of  life,  must  have  made  their  possessor 
a most  distinguished  man.  Politics,  war,  women,  literature, 
the  turf,  the  navy,  the  opposition,  architecture,,  the  drama,  were 
all  discussed  with  a degree  of  information  and  knowledge  that 
proved  to  me  how  much  of  real  acquirements  can  be  obtained 
by  those  whose  exalted  station  surrounds  them  with  the  collect- 
ive intellect  of  a nation.  As  for  myself,  the  time  flew  past 
unconsciously.  Sp  brilliant  a display  of  all  that  was  courtly 
and  fascinating  in  manner,  and  all  that  was  brilliant  in  genius, 
was  so  novel  to  me  that  I really  felt  like  one  entranced.  To 
this  hour  my  impression,  however  confused  in  details,  is  as 
vivid  as  though  that  evening  w^ere  but  yesternight;  and  although 
since  that  period  I have  enjoyed  numerous  opportunities  of 
meeting  with  the  great  and  the  gifted,  yet  I treasure  the  memory 
of  that  night  as  by  far  the  most  delightful  of  my  whole  life. 

While  I abstain  from  any  mention  of  the  many  incidents  of 
the  evening,  I cannot  pass  over  one,  which  occurred  to  myself, 
as  valuable  but  as  showing,  by  one  slight  and  passing  trait,  the 
amiable  and  kind  feeling  of  one  whose  memory  is  hallowed  in 
the  service. 

A little  lower  than  myself,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  I 
perceived  an  old  military  acquaintance,  whom  I had  first  met  in 
Lisbon.  He  was  then  in  Sir  Charles  Stewart’s  staff,  and  we 
met  almost  daily.  Wishing  to  commend  myself  to  his  recollec- 
tion, I endeavored  for  some  time  to  catch  his  eye,  but  in  vain; 
at  last,  when  I thought  I had  succeeded,  I called  to  him: 

“ I say,  Fred,  a glass  of  wine  with  you.” 

When  suddenly  the  Duke  of  York,  who  was  speaking  to 

Lord , turned  quickly  around,  and,  taking  the  decanter  in 

his  hand,  replied: 

“ With  pleasure,  O’Malley;  what  shall  it  be,  my  boy?” 

I shall  never  forget  the  manly  good  humor  in  his  look,  as  he 
sat  waiting  for  my  answer.  He  had  taken  my  Speech  as  ad- 
dressed to  himself,  and  concluding  that,  from  fatigue,  fhe  nov- 
elty of  the  scene,  &c.,  I was  not  over  collected,  vouchsafed  in 
this  kind  way  to  receive  it. 

“So,”  said  he,  as  I stammered  out  my  explanation,  “I  was 
deceived;  however,  don’t  cheat  me  out  of  m}^  glass  of  wine.  Let 
us  have  it  now.” 

With  this  little  anecdote,  whose  truth  I vouch  for,  I shall  con- 
clude. More  than  one  now  living  was  a witness  to  it;  and  my 
only  regret,  in  the  mention  of  it,  is  my  inability  to  convey  the 
readiness  vvith  which  he  seized  t!ie  moment  of  a[)parent  diffi- 
culty to  throw  the  protection  of  his  kind  and  warm-hearted  nat- 
ure over  the  apparent  folly  of  a boy. 

It  was  late  when  the  party  broke  up,  and,  as  I took  my  leave 


CHARLES  0*MALLEY. 


m 


of  the  Prince,  he  once  more  expressed  himself  in  gracious  terms 
toward  me,  and  gave  me,  personally,  an  invitation  to  breakfast 
at  Hounslow  on  the  following  Saturday. 


CHAPTER  CVL 

THE  BELL  AT  BRISTOL. 

On  the  morning  after  my  dinner  at  the  Carlton  House,  1 found 
my  breakfast-table  covered  with  cards  and  invitations.  The 
news  of  the  storming  of  Ciudad  Rodrigo  was  published  in  all  the 
morning  papers,  and  my  own  humble  name  in  letters  three  feet 
long  was  exhibited  in  placards  throughout  the  city.  Less  to  this 
circumstance,  however,  than  to  the  kind  and  gracious  notice  of 
the  Prince,  was  I indebted  for  the  attentions  which  were  shown 
to  me  on  all  sides,  and,  indeed,  so  flattering  was  the  reception  I 
met  with,  and  so  overwhelming  the  civility  showered  on  me 
from  all  sides,  that  it  required  no  small  effort  on  my  part  not  to 
believe  myself  as  much  a hero  as  they  would  make  me.  An 
eternal  round  of  dinners,  balls,  breakfasts,  and  entertainments, 
fllled  up  the  entire  week.  I was  included  in  every  invitation  to 
Carlton  House,  and  never  appeared  without  receiving  from  his 
Royal  Highness  the  most  striking  marks  of  attention.  Captivat- 
ing as  all  this  undoubtedly  was,  and  fascinating  as  I felt  being 
the  lion  of  London,  the  courted  and  sought  after  by  the  high, 
the  titled  and  the  talented  of  the  great  city  of  the  universe,  yet 
amid  all  the  splendor  and  seduction  of  that  new  world,  my  heart 
instinctively  turned  from  the  glare  and  brilliancy  of  gorgeous 
saloons— from  the  soft  looks  and  softer  voices  of  beauty — from 
the  words  of  praise,  as  they  fell  from  the  lips  of  those  whose 
notice  was  fame  itself,  to  my  humble  home  amid  the  mountains 
of  the  west.  Delighted  and  charmed  as  I felt  by  that  tribute 
of  flattery  which  associated  my  name  with  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  actions  of  my  country,  yet  hitherto  I had  ex- 
perienced no  touch  of  home  or  fatherland.  England  was  to 
me  as  the  high  and  powerful  head  of  my  home,  whose 
greatness  and  whose  glory  shed  a halo  far  and  near,  from 
the  proudest  to  the  humblest  of  those  that  call  them- 
selves Britons;  but  Ireland  was  the  land  of  my  birth — the  land 
of  my  earliest  ties,  my  dearest  associations — the  kind  mother 
whose  breath  had  fanned  my  brow  in  infancy;  and  for  her  in 
my  manhood  my  heart  beat  with  every  throb  of  filial  affection. 
Need  I say,  then,  how  ardently  I longed  to  turn  homeward,  for, 
independent  of  all  else,  I could  not  avoid  some  self-reproach  on 
thinking  what  might  be  the  condition  of  those  I prized  the  most 
on  earth,  when,  at  that  very  moment  I was  engaged  in  all  the 
voluptuous  abandonment  and  all  the  fascinating  excesses  of  a 
life  of  pleasure.  I wrote  several  letters  home,  but  received  no 
answer;  nor  did  I,  in  the  whole  round  of  London  society,  meet 
with  a single  person  who  could  give  me  information  of  my  fam^ 
ily  or  my  friends.  The  Easter  recess  had  sent  the  different  mem- 
bers of  Parliament  to  their  homes;  and  thus  within  a compara- 
tively short  distance  of  all  I cared  for,  I could  learn  nothing  of 
their  fate. 


192 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


The  invitations  of  the  Prince  Regent,  which  were,  of  course, 
to  be  regarded  as  commands,  still  detained  me  in  London,  and 
I knew  not  in  what  manner  to  escape  from  the  fresh  engage- 
ments which  each  day  heaped  upon  me.  In  my  anxiety  upon 
the  subject,  I communicated  my  wishes  to  a friend  on  the  Duke’s 
staff,  and  the  following  morning,  as  I presented  myself  at  his 
levee,  he  called  me  toward  him  and  addressed  me: 

“ What  leave  have  you  got.  Captain  O’Malley?” 

Three  months,  your  Royal  Highness.” 

“ Do  you  desire  an  unattached  troop  ? for,  if  so,  an  opportuni- 
ty occurs  at  this  moment.” 

“I  thank  you  most  sincerely,  sir,  for  your  condescension  in 
thinking  of  me;  but  my  wish  is  to  join  my  regiment  at  the  ex- 
piration of  my  leave.” 

“ Why,  I thought  they  told  me  you  wanted  to  spend  some 
time  in  Ireland  ?” 

“Only  sufficient  to  see  my  friends,  your  Royal  Highness. 
That  done,  I’d  rather  join  my  regiment  immediately.” 

“Ahl  that  alters  the  case;  so  then,  probably,  you’d  like  to 
leave  us  at  once.  I see  how  it  is;  you’ve  been  staying  here 
against  your  will  all  this  while.  There,  don’t  say  a word.  I’ll 
make  your  excuses  at  Carlton  House;  and,  the  better  to  cover 
your  retreat,  I’ll  employ  you  on  service.  Here,  Gordon,  let  Cap- 
tain O’Malley  have  the  dispatches  for  Sir  Henry  Howard  at 
Cork.”  As  he  said  this,  he  turned  toward  me  with  an  air  of  af- 
fected sternness  in  his  manner,  and  continued:  “I  expect.  Cap- 
tain O’Malley,  that  you  will  deliver  the  dispatches  intrusted  to 
your  care  without  a moment’s  loss  of  time.  You  will  leave 
London  within  an  hour.  The  instructions  for  your  journey  will 
be  sent  to  your  hotel.  And  now,”  said  he,  again  changing  his 
voice  to  its  natural  tone  of  kindness  and  courtesy,  “and  now, 
niy  boy,  good-bye,  and  a safe  journey  to  you.  These  letters  will 
pay  your  expenses,  and  the  occasion  save  you  all  the  worry  of 
leave-taking.” 

I stood  confused  and  speechless,  unable  to  utter  a single  word 
of  gratitude  for  such  unexpected  kindness.  The  Duke  saw  at 
once  my  difficulty;  and,  as  he  shook  me  warmly  by  the  hand, 
added,  in  a laughing  tone: 

“Don’t  wait  now.  You  mustn’t  forget  that  your  dispatches 
are  pressing.” 

I bowed  deeply,  attempted  a few  words  of  acknowledgment, 
hesitated,  blundered,  and  broke  down;  and  at  last  got  out  of  the 
room,  Heaven  knows  how!  and  found  myself  running  toward 
Long’s  at  the  top  of  my  speed.  Within  that  same  hour  I was 
rattling  along  toward  Bristol  as  fast  as  four  posters  could  brave 
the  pavement,  thinking  with  ecstasy  over  the  pleasures  of  my 
reception  in  England,  but,  far  more  than  all,  of  the  kindness 
evinced  toward  me  by  him  who,  in  every  feeling  of  his  nature, 
and  every  feature  of  his  deportment  was  “ every  inch  a prince.” 

However  astonished  I had  been  at  the  warmth  by  which  I 
was  treated  in  London,  I was  still  less  prepared  for  the  enthu- 
siasm which  greeted  me  in  every  town  through  which  I passed. 
There  was  not  a village  where  we  stopped  to  change  horses  whose 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


193 


inhabitants  did  not  simultaneously  pour  forth  to  welcome  me 
with  every  demonstration  of  delight.  That  the  fact  of  four 
horses  and  a yellow  chaise  should  have  elicited  such  testimonies 
of  satisfaction,  was  somewhat  difficult  to  conceive;  and,  even 
had  the  important  news  that  I was  the  bearer  of  dispatches  been 
telegraphed  from  London  by  successive  post-boys,  still  the  ex- 
traordinary excitement  was  unaccountable.  It  was  only  on 
reaching  Bristol  that  I learned  to  whiit  circumstance  my  popu- 
larity was  owing.  My  friend  Mike,  in  humble  imitation  of  elec- 
tion practices,  h^ad  posted  a large  placard  on  the  back  of  the 
chaise,  announcing,  in  letters  of  portentous  length,  something 
like  the  following: 

^‘Bloody  news!  Fall  of  Ciudad  Rodrigo — five  thousand  pris- 
oners and  two  hundred  pieces  of  cannon  taken.  Account  of  the 
siege  and  the  assault,  with  a letter  from  Captain  O’Malley,  who 
led  the  stormersi” 

This  veracious  and  satisfactory  statement,  aided  by  Mike’s 
personal  exertions,  and  an  unwearied  performance  on  the  trum- 
pet he  had  taken  from  the  French  dragoon,  had  roused  the  pop- 
ulation of  every  hamlet,  and  made  our  journey  from  London  to 
Bristol  one  scene  of  uproar,  noise,  and  confusion.  All  my  at- 
tempts to  suppress  Mike’s  oratory  or  music  were  perfectly  una- 
vailing. In  fact,  he  had  pledged  my  health  so  many  times  dur- 
ing the  day — he  had  drunk  so  many  toasts  to  the  success  of  the 
British  arms — so  many  to  the  English  nation — so  many  in  honor 
of  Ireland — and  so  many  in  honor  of  Mickey  Free  himself,  that 
all  respect  for  my  authority  was  lost  in  his  enthusiasm  for  my 
greatness,  and  his  shouts  became  wilder,  and  the  blasts  from  the 
trumpet  more  fearful  and  incoherent;  and  finally,  on  the  last 
stage  of  our  journey,  having  exhausted  as  it  were  every  tribute 
of  his  lungs,  he  seemed  (if  I were  to  judge  by  the  evidence  of  my 
ears)  to  be  performing  something  very  like  a hornpipe  on  the 
roof  of  the  chaise. 

Happily  for  me,  there  is  a limit  to  all  human  efforts,  and  even  his 
powers  at  length  succumbed;  so  that  when  we  arrived  at  Bristol, 
I persuaded  him  to  go  to  bed,  and  I once  more  was  left  to  the 
enjoyment  of  some  quiet.  To  fill  up  the  few  hours  which  inter- 
vened before  bed-time,  I strolled  into  the  coffee-room.  The  En- 
glish look  of  every  one,  and  everything  around,  had  still  its 
charm  for  me;  and  I was  contemplating,  with  no  small  admira- 
tion, that  air  of  neatness  and  propriety  so  observant  from  the 
bright-faced  clock  that  ticked  unweariedly  upon  the  mantel- 
piece, to  the  trim  waiter  himself,  with  noiseless  step,  and  that 
mixed  look  of  vigilance  and  vacancy.  The  perfect  stillness 
struck  me,  save  when  a deep  voice  called  for  “ another  brandy 
and  water,”  and  some  more  modestly -toned  request  would  utter 
a desire  for  “ more  cream.”  The  absorbed  attention  of  each 
man,  in  the  folds  of  his  voluminous  newspaper,  scarcely  deign- 
ing a glance  at  the  new-comer  who  entered,  were  all  in  keeping; 
giving,  in  their  solemnity  and  gravity,  a character  of  almost 
religious  seriousness,  to  what,  in  any  other  land,  would  be  a scene 
of  riotous  noise  and  discordant  tumult.  I was  watching  all 
these  with  a more  than  common  interest,  when  the  door  opened, 


194 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


and  the  waiter  entered  with  a large  placard.  He  was  followed 
by  another  with  a ladder,  by  whose  assistance  he  succeeded  in 
attaching  the  large  square  of  paper  to  the  wall,  above  the  fire- 
place. Every  one  about  rose  up,  curious  to  ascertain  what  was 
going  forward;  and  I,  myself,  joined  in  the  crowd  around  the 
fire.  The  first  glance  of  the  announcement  showed  me  what  it 
meant;  and  it  was  with  a strange  mixture  of  shame  and  con- 
fusion I read: 

“ Fall  of  Ciudad  Rodrigo;  with  a full  and  detailed  account  of 
the  storming  of  the  great  breach — capture  of  the  enemy’s  can- 
non, &c.,  by  Michael  Free,  Fourteenth  Light  Dragoons.” 

Leaving  the  many  around  me  busied  in  conjecturing  who  the 
aforesaid  Mr.  Free  might  be,  and  what  peculiar  opportunities 
he  might  have  enjoyed  for  his  report,  I hurried  from  the  room 
and  called  the  waiter. 

“ What’s  the  meaning  of  the  announcement  you’ve  just  put  up 
in  the  coffee-room  ? where  did  it  come  from  ?” 

“ Most  important  news,  sir;  exclusively  in  the  columns  of  the 
Bristol  Telegraph;  the  gentleman  has  just  arrived ” 

“ Who,  pray  ? what  gentleman  ?” 

“Mr.  Free,  sir,  No.  13 — large  bed-room — blue  damask — supper 
for  one — oysters — a devil — brandy  and  water — mulled  port.” 

“ What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ? is  the  fellow  at  supper?” 

Somewhat  shocked  at  the  tone  I ventured  to  assume  toward 
the  illustrious  narrator,  the  waiter  merely  bowed  his  reply. 

“Show  me  to  his  room,”  said  I;  “I  should  like  tc  see  him.” 

“ Follow  me,  if  you  please,  sir — this  way — ^what  name  shall  I 
say,  sir?” 

“ You  need  not  mind  announcing  me — I am  an  old  acquaint- 
ance— just  show  me  the  room.” 

“ I beg  pardon,  sir,  but  Mr.  Meekins,  the  editor  of  the  Tele- 
graph, is  engaged  with  him  at  present;  and  positive  orders  are 
given  not  to  suffer  any  interruptions.” 

“No  matter;  do  as  1 bid  you.  Is  that  it?  Oh!  I hear  his  voice. 
There,  that  will  do.  You  may  go  down-stairs.  I’ll  introduce  my- 
self.” 

So  sayiiig.  and  slipping  a crown  into  the  waiter’s  hand,  I pro- 
ceeded cautiously  toward  the  door,  and  opened  it  stealthily. 
My  caution  was,  hovever,  needless,  for  a large  screen  was  drawn 
across  this  part  of  the  room,  completely  concealing  the  door; 
closing  which  behind  me,  I took  my  place  beneath  the  shelter  of 
this  ambuscade,  determined  on  no  account  to  be  perceived  by 
the  parties. 

Seated  in  a large  arm-chair,  a smoking  tumbler  of  mulled 
port  before  him,  sat  my  friend  Mike,  dressed  in  my  full  regi- 
mentals, even  to  the  helmet,  which  unfortunately,  however,  for 
the  effect,  he  had  put  on  back  foremost;  a short  “ dudeen”  graced 
his  lip,  and  the  trumpet  so  frequently  alluded  to,  lay  near  him. 

Opposite  to  him  sat  a short,  puny,  round-faced  little  gentle- 
man, with  rolling  eyes  and  a turned-up  nose.  Numerous  sheets 
of  paper,  pens,  etc.,  lay  scattered  about;  and  he  evinced  by  his 
air  and  gesture,  the  most  marked  and  eager  attention  to  Mr. 
Free’s  narrative,  whose  frequent  interruptions,  caused  by  the 


CHARLES  OMALLEY.  195 

drink  and  oysters,  were  viewed  with  no  small  impatience  by  the 
anxious  editor. 

“You  must  remember,  Captain,  time’s  passing;  the  placards 
are  all  out;  must  be  at  press  before  one  o’clock  to-night,  the 
morning  edition  is  everything  with  us.  You  were  at  the  first 
parallel,  I think.” 

“Devil  a one  o’  me  knows.  Just  ring  that  bell  near  you; 
them's  elegant  oysters,  and  you’re  not  taking  your  drop  of  liquor; 

here’s  a toast  for  you — ‘ May ’ Whoop — raal  Carlingfords, 

upon  my  conscience.  See  now,  if  I won’t  hit  the  little  black 
chap  up  there  the  first  shot.” 

Scarcely  were  the  words  spoken,  when  a little  painted  bust  of 
Shakespeare  fell  in  fragments  on  the  fioor  as  an  oyster  shell  laid 
him  low. 

A faint  effort  at  a laugh  at  the  eccentricities  of  his  friend  was 
all  the  poor  editor  could  accomplish,  while  Mike’s  triumph  knew 
no  bounds. 

“ Didn’t  I tell  you  ? But  come  now,  are  you  ready?  give  the 
pen  a drink,  if  you  won’t  take  one  yourself.” 

“I’m  ready,  quite  ready,”  responded  the  editor. 

“Faith,  and  it’s  more  nor  lam.  See  now,  here  it  is.  The 
night  was  murthering  dark;  you  could  not  see  a stim.” 

“ Not  see  a— a what  ?” 

“A  stim,  bad  luck  to  you;  don’t  you  know  English?  Hand 
me  the  hot  water.  Have  you  that  down  yet  ?” 

“ Yes.  Pray  proceed.” 

“ The  fifth  division  was  orthered  up,  bekase  they  were  fighting 
chaps;  the  Eighty-eighth  was  among  them;  the  Rangers — oh! 
upon  my  soul,  we  must  drink  the  Rangers.  Here,  divil  a one 
’o  me  will  go  on  till  we  give  them  all  the  honors — hip — begin.” 

“ Hip,”  sighed  the  luckless  editor,  as  he  rose  from  his  chair, 
obedient  to  the  command. 

“ Hurra — hurra — hurra!  Well  done!  there’s  stuff  in  you  yet, 
ould  foolscap!  the  little  bottle’s  empty — ring  again,  if  youplase, 

“ ‘ Oh,  Father  Magan 
Was  a beautiful  man, 

But  a bit  of  a rogue,  a bit  of  a rogue. 

He  was  just  six  feet  high. 

Had  a cast  in  his  eye. 

And  an  illigint  brogue,  an  illigint  brogue. 

“ ‘ He  was  born  in  Killarney 
And  reared  up  in  Blarney ’ 

“Arrah,  dont  be  looking  miserable  and  dissolute  that  way. 
Sure,  I’m  only  screwing  myself  up  for  you,  besides,  you  can  print 
the  song  as  you  like;  it’s  a sweet  tune — ‘ Teddy  ye  Gander.’  ” 

“ Really,  Mr.  Free,  I see  no  prospect  of  our  ever  getting  done.” 

‘ ‘ The  saints  in  heaven  forbid,”  interrupted  Mike  piously ; “ the 
evening’s  young,  and  drink  plenty;  here  now,  make  ready!” 

The  editor  once  more  made  a gesture  of  preparation. 

“ Well,  as  I was  saying,”  resumed  Mike,  “ it  was  pitch  dark 
when  the  columns  moved  up,  and  a cold  raw  night  with  a little 
thin  rain  falling.  Have  you  that  down  ?” 


196 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


“ Yes.  Pray  go  on.” 

Well,  just  as  it  might  be  here  at  the  comer  of  the  trench  I 
met  Dr.  Quill.  ‘They're  waiting  for  you,  Misther  Free,’ says 
he,  ‘down  there.  Picton’s  asking  for  you.’  ‘Faith  and  you 
must  wait,’  says  I,  ‘ for  I’m  terribly  dry.’  With  that  he  pulled 
out  his  canteen  and  mixed  me  a little  brandy  and  water.  ‘ Are 
you  taking  it  without  a toast  ?’  says  Dr.  Maurice.  ‘ Never  fear, 
says  I.  ‘ Here’s  Mary  Brady ” 

“ But,  my  dear  sir,”  interposed  Mr.  Meekins,  “ pray  do  remem- 
ber that  this  is  somewhat  irrelevant.  In  fifteen  minutes  it  will 
be  twelve  o’clock.” 

“ I know  it,  ould  boy,  I know  it.  I see  what  you’re  at.  You 
were  going  to  observe  how  much  better  we’d  be  for  a broiled 
bone.” 

“ Nothing  of  the  kind,  I assure  you.  For  Heaven’s  sake,  no 
more  eating  and  drinking.” 

“No  more  eating  nor  drinking!  Why  not?  You’ve  a nice  no- 
tion of  a convivial  evening.  Faith,  we’ll  have  the  broiled  bone 
sure  enough,  and,  what’s  more,  a half-gallon  of  the  strongest 
punch  they  can  make  us;  an’  I hope  that,  grave  as  you  are, 
you’ll  favor  the  company  with  a song.” 

“Eeally,  Mr.  Free ” 

“ Arrah!  none  of  your  blarney.  Don’t  be  misthering  me. 
Call  me  Mickey,  or  Mickey  Free,  if  you  like  better.” 

“ I protest,”  said  the  editor,  with  dismay,  “ that  here  we  are 
two  hours  at  work,  and  we  haven’t  got  to  the  foot  of  the  great 
breach.” 

“ And  wasn’t  the  army  three  months  and  a half  in  just  getting 
that  far,  with  a battering  train,  and  mortars,  and  the  finest 
troops  ever  were  seen?  and  there  you  sit,  a little  fat  creature, 
with  your  pen  in  your  hand,  grumbling  that  you  can’t  do  more 
than  the  whole  British  army.  Take  care  you  don’t  provoke  me 
to  beat  you;  for  I am  quiet  till  I’m  roused.  But,  by  the  Kock 
o’  Cashel ” 

Here  he  grasped  a brass  trumpet  with  an  energy  that  made  the 
editor  spring  from  his  chair. 

“For  mercy’s  sake,  Mr.  Free ” 

“ Well,  I won’t;  but  sit  down  there,  and  don’t  be  bothering  me 
about  sieges,  and  battles,  and  things  you  know  nothing  about.” 

“ I protest,”  rejoined  Mr.  Meekins,  “ that  had  you  not  sent  to 
my  office  intimating  your  wish  to  communicate  an  account  of 
the  siege,  I never  should  have  thought  of  intruding  myself  upon 
you.  And  now,  since  you  appear  indisposed  to  afford  the  infor- 
mation in  question,  if  you  will  permit  me,  I wish  you  a very  good 
night.’* 

“Faith,  and  so  you  shall,  and  help  me  to  pass  one,  too;  for 
not  a step  out  o’  that  chair  shall  you  take  till  morning.  Do  ye 
think  I am  going  to  be  left  here  by  myself,  all  alone  ?” 

‘ ‘ I must  observe ” said  Mr.  Meekins. 

“ To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,”  said  Mickey;  “ I see  what  you  mean. 
You’re  not  the  best  of  company,  it’s  true;  but  at  a pinch  like 
this There  now,  take  your  liquor.” 

“ Once  for  all,  sir,”  said  the  editor,  I would  beg  you  to  recol 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


197 


lect  that,  on  the  faith  of  your  message  to  me,  I have  an- 
nounced an  account  of  the  storming  of  Ciudad  Rodrigo  for  our 
morning  edition.  Are  you  prepared,  may  I ask,  for  the  conse- 
quences of  my  disappointing  fcen  thousand  readers 

“It’s  little  I care  for  one  of  them.  I never  knew  much  of 
reading  myself.” 

“ If  you*  think  to  make  a jest  of  me,”  interposed  Mr.  Meekins, 
reddening  with  passion. 

“A  jest  of  you  I Troth,  its  little  fun  I can  get  out  of  you; 
you’re  as  tiresome  a creature  as  ever  I spent  an  evening  with. 
See  now,  I told  you  before  not  to  provoke  me;  we’ll  have  a little 
more  drink:  ring  the  bell:  who  knows  which  will  turn  out  better 
by  and  by  ?” 

As  Mike  rose  at  these  words  to  summon  the  waiter,  Mr.  Meek- 
ins seized  the  opportunity  to  make  his  escape.  Scarcely  had  he 
reached  the  door,  however,  when  he  was  perceived  by  Mickey, 
who  hurled  the  trumpet  at  him  with  all  his  force,  when  he  uttered 
a shout  that  nearly  left  the  poor  editor  lifeless  with  terror.  This 
time,  happily,  Mr.  Free’s  aim  failed  him,  and,  before  he  could 
arrest  the  progress  of  his  victim,  he  had  gained  the  corridor, 
and,  with  one  bound,  cleared  the  first  flight  of  the  staircase, 
his  pace  increasing  every  moment  as  Mike’s  denunciations  grew 
louder  and  louder,  till  at  last,  as  he  reached  the  street,  Mr. 
Free’s  delight  overcame  his  indignation,  and  he  threw  him- 
self upon  a chair  and  laughed  immoderately. 

“ Oh,  may  I never!  if  I didn’t  frighten  the  editor.  The  little 
spalpeen  couldn’t  eat  his  oysters  and  take  his  punch  like  a man. 
But  sure  if  he  didn’t,  there’s  more  left  for  his  betters.”  So  say- 
ing, he  filled  himself  a goblet  and  drank  it  off.  “Mr.  Free,  we 
won’t  say  much  for  your  inclinations,  for  may  be  they  are  not 
the  best;  but  here’s  bad  luck  to  the  fellow  that  doesn’t  think 
you  good  company;  and  here,”  added  he,  again  filling  his  glass, 
“and  here’s  may  the  devil  take  editors,  and  authors,  and  com- 
positors, that  won’t  let  us  alone,  but  must  be  taking  our  lives, 
and  our  songs,  and  our  little  devilments,  that  belongs  to  one’s 
own  family,  and  tell  them  all  over  the  world.  A lazy  set  of 
thieves  you  are,  every  one  of  you,  spending  your  time  invent- 
ing lies,  devil  a more  nor  less;  and  here” — this  time  he  filled 
again — “ and  here’s  a hot  corner  and  Kilkenny  co.als,  that’s  half 
sulphur,  toihe  villain ” 

For  what  particular  class  of  offenders  Mike’s  penal  code  was 
now  devised,  I was  not  destined  to  learn;  for  overcome  by  punch 
and  indignation,  he  gave  one  loud  whoop,  and  measured  his 
length  upon  the  floor.  Having  committed  him  to  the  care  of 
the  waiters,  from  whom  I learned  more  fully  the  particulars  of 
his  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Meekins,  I enjoined  them,  strictly, 
not  to  mention  that  I knew  anything  of  the  matter;  and  betook 
myself  to  my  bed,  sincerely  rejoicing  that  in  a few  hours  more 
Mike  would  be  again  in  that  land  where  even  his  eccentricities 
and  excesses  would  be  viewed  with  a favorable  and  forgiving 
eye. 


198 


CHARLES  CMALL 


CHAPTER  CVIL 

IRELAx^D. 

“ You’d  better  call  your  master  up,”  said  the  skipper  to  Mickey 
Free,  on  the  second  evening  after  our  departure  from  Bristol; 
“ he  said  he’d  like  to  have  a look  at  the  coast.” 

The  words  were  overheard  by  me,  as  I lay  between  sleeping  and 
waking  in  the  cabin  of  the  packet,  and,  without  waiting  for  a sec- 
ond invitation,  I rushed  upon  deck.  The  sun  was  setting,  and  one 
vast  surface  of  yellow  golden  light  played  upon  the  water  as  it 
rippled  beneath  a gentle  gale.  The  white  foam  curled  at  our 
prow,  and  the  rushing  sound  told  the  speed  we  were  going  at. 
The  little  craft  was  staggering  under  every  sheet  of  canvas,  and 
her  spars  creaked  as  her  white  sails  bent  before  the  breeze.  Be- 
fore us,  but  to  ray  landsman’s  eyes  scarcely  perceptible,  was  the 
ill- defined  outlines  of  cloudy  darkness  they  called  land,  and 
which  I continued  to  gaze  at  with  a strange  sense  of  interest, 
while  I heard  the  names  of  certain  well-known  headlands  as- 
signed to  apparently  mere  masses  of  fog-bank  and  vapor. 

He  who  has  never  been  separated  in  early  years,  while  yet 
the  budding  affections  of  his  heart  are  tender  shoots,  from  the 
land  of  his  birth  and  of  his  liorae,  knows  nothing  of  the  throng 
of  sensations  that  crowd  upon  him  as  he  nears  the  shore  of  his 
country.  The  names,  familiar  as  household  words,  come  with 
a train  of  long-buried  thoughts;  the  feeling  of  attachment  to  all 
we  call  our  own — that  patriotism  of  the  heart — stirs  strongly 
within  him,  as  the  mingled  thrills  of  hope  and  fear  alternately 
move  him  to  joy  or  sadness. 

Hard  as  are  the  worldly  struggles  between  the  daily  cares  of 
him  who  carves  out  his  own  career  and  fortune,  yet  he  has 
never  experienced  the  darkest  poverty  of  fate  who  has  not  felt 
what  it  is  to  be  a wanderer,  without  a country  to  lay  claim  to. 
Of  all  the  desolations  that  visit  us,  this  is  the  gloomiest  and  the 
worst.  The  outcast  from  tlie  land  of  his  fathers,  whose  voice 
must  never  be  heard  within  the  walls  where  his  infancy  was 
nurtured,  nor  his  step  be  free  upon  the  mountains  where  he 
gambolled  in  his  youth,  this  is,  indeed,  wretchedness.  The  in- 
stinct of  country  grows  and  strengthens  with  our  years;  the 
joys  of  early  life  are  linked  with  it;  the  hopes  of  age  point  to- 
ward it;  and  he  who  knows  not  the  thrill  of  ecstasy  some  w^ell- 
remembered,  long-lost-sight- of  place  can  bring  to  his  heart  when 
returning  after  years  of  absence,  is  ignorant  of  one  of  the  purest 
sources  of  happiness  of  our  nature. 

With  what  a yearning  of  the  heart,  then,  did  I look  upon  the 
dim  and  misty  cliffs,  that  mighty  framework  of  my  island  home, 
their  stern  sides  lashed  by  the  blue  waters  of  the  ocean,  and 
their  summits  lost  within  the  clouds.  With  what  an  easy  and 
natural  transition  did  my  mind  turn  from  the  wild  mountains 
and  the  green  valleys  to  their  hardy  sons,  who  toiled  beneath  the 
burning  sun  of  the  Peninsula!  and  how,  as  some  twinkling  light 
of  the  distant  shore  would  catch  my  eye,  did  I wonder  within 
jnjrself  whether  beside  that  hearth  and  board  there  might  not 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


199 


sit  some,  whose  thoughts  were  wandering  over  the  sea  beside 
the  bold  steps  of  El  Rodon,  or  the  death-strewn  plain  of  Tala- 
veral  their  memories  calling  upon  some  trait  of  him  who  was 
the  idol  of  his  home;  whose  closing  lids  some  fond  mother  has 
-watched  over;  above  whose  peaceful  slumber  her  prayers  have 
fallen;  but  whose  narrow  bed  was  now  beneath  the  breach  of 
Badajos,  and  his  sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking. 

I know  not  if  in  my  sad  and  sorrowing  spirit  I did  not  envy 
him  who  thus  had  met  a soldier’s  fate — for  what  of  promise  had 
my  owni 

My  hopes  of  being  in  any  way  instrumental  to  my  poor  uncle’s 
happiness  grew  hourly  less.  His  prejudices  -w’ere  deeply  rooted 
and  of  long  standing;  to  have  asked  him  to  surrender  any  of 
what  he  looked  upon  as  the  prerogatives  of  his  house  and  name 
would  be  to  risk  the  loss  of  his  esteem.  What,  then,  remained 
for  me?  Was  I to  watch,  day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour,  the  fall- 
ing ruins  of  our  fortunes  ? Was  I to  involve  myself  in  the  petty 
warfare  of  unavailing  resistance  of  the  law  ? and  could  I stand 
aloof  from  my  best,  my  truest,  my  earliest  friend,  and  see  him, 
alone  and  unaided,  oppose  his  weak  and  final  struggle  to  the  un 
relenting  career  of  persecution  ? Bet^v^een  these  two  alternatives 
the  former  could  be  my  only  choice;  andw^hat  a choice! 

Oh,  how  I thought  over  the  wild  heroism  of  the  battle-field, 
the  reckless  fury  of  the  charge,  the  crash,  the  death-cry,  and  the 
sad  picture  of  the  morrow,  when  all  w^as  past,  and  a soldier’s 
glory  alone  remained  to  shed  its  high  halo  over  the  faults  and 
the  follies  of  the  dead. 

As  night  fell,  the  twinkling  of  the  distant  light-houses — some 
throwing  a column  of  light  from  the  very  verge  of  the  horizon, 
others  shining  brightly,  like  stars,  from  some  lofty  promontory 
— marked  the  different  outlines  of  the  coast,  and  conveyed  to  me 
the  memory  of  that  broken  and  wild  mountain  tract  that  forms 
the  bulwark  of  the  green  isle  against  the  weaves  of  the  Atlantic. 
Alone  and  silently  1 trod  the  deck,  now  turning  to  look  toward 
the  shore,  where  I thought  I could  detect  the  position  of  some 
well-known  headland,  now  straining  my  eyes  seaward  to  watch 
some  bright  and  fiitting  star,  as  it  rose  from  or  merged  beneath 
the  foaming  water,  denoting  the  track  of  the  swift  pilot-boat,  or 
the  hardy  lugger  of  the  fisherman;  while  the  shrill  whistle  of  the 
fioating  sea-gull -was  the  only  sound,  save  the  rushing  waves  that 
broke  in  spray  upon  our  quarter. 

What  is  it  that  so  inevitably  inspires  sad  and  impressive 
thoughts,  as  we  walk  the  deck  of  some  little  craft  in  the  silence 
of  the  night’s  dark  hours?  No  sense  of  danger  near,  we  hold 
on  our  course  swiftly  and  steadily,  cleaving  the  dark  waves,  and 
bending  gracefully  beneath  the  freshening  breeze.  Yet  still,  the 
motion,  which  in  the  bright  sunshine  of  the  noonday  tells  of  joy 
and  gladness,  brings  now  no  touch  of  pleasure  to  our  hearts. 
The  dark  and  frowning  sky,  the  boundless  expanse  of  gloomy 
water,  spread  like  some  gigantic  pall  around  us,  and  our  thoughts 
either  turn  back  upon  the  saddest  features  of  the  past,  or  look 
forward  to  the  future  with  a sickly  hope  that  all  may  not  be  as 
we  fear  it. 


200 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


Mine  were,  indeed,  the  gloomiest,  and  the  selfishness  alone  of 
the  thought  prevented  me  from  wishing  that,  like  many  another, 

I had  fallen  by  a soldier’s  death  on  the  plains  of  the  Peninsula. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  I wrapped  myself  in  my  cloak,  and  lay 
down  beneath  the  bulwark.  The  whole  of  my  past  life  came  in 
review  before  me,  and  I thought  over  my  first  meeting  with 
Lucy  Dash  wood;  the  thrill  of  boyish  admiration  gliding  into 
love;  the  hopes,  the  fears,  that  stirred  my  heart;  the  firm  resolve 
to  merit  her  affection,  which  made  me  a soldier.  Alas!  how 
little  she  thought  of  him  to  whose  whole  life  she  had  been  a 
guide-star  and  a beacon!  And,  as  I thought  over  the  hard- 
fought  fields,  the  long,  fatiguing  marches,  the  nights  around  the 
watch-fires,  and  felt  how,  in  the  whirl  and  enthusiasm  of  a 
soldier’s  life,  the  cares  and  sorrows  of  every- day  existence  are 
forgotten,  I shuddered  to  reflect  upon  the  career  that  might  now 
open  before  me.  To  abandon,  perhaps  forever,  tlie  glorious  path 
I had  been  pursuing,  for  a life  of  indolence  and  weariness,  and 
my  name,  that  had  already,  by  the  chance  of  fortunate  circum- 
stances, begun  to  be  mentioned  with  a testimony  of  approval, 
should  be  lost  in  oblivion,  or  remembered  but  as  that  of  one 
whose  early  promise  was  not  borne  out  by  deeds  of  his  man- 
hood. 

As  day  broke,  overcome  by  watching,  I slept;  but  was  soon 
awakened  by  the  stir  and  bustle  around  me.  The  breeze  had 
freshened,  and  we  were  running  under  a reefed  mainsail  and  fore- 
sail; and  as  the  little  craft  bounded  above  the  blue  water,  the 
white  foam  crested  above  her  prow,  and  ran  in  boiling  rivulets 
along  toward  the  after-deck.  The  tramp  of  the  seamen,  the 
hoarse  voice  of  the  captain,  the  shrill  cry  of  the  sea  birds,  be- 
tokened, however,  nothing  of  dread  or  danger;  and  listlessly  I 
leant  upon  my  elbow,  and  asked  what  was  going  forward. 

Nothing,  sir,  only  making  ready  to  drop  our  anchor.” 

“Are  we  so  near  shore,  then  ?”  said  I. 

“You’ve  only  to  run  round  that  point  to  windward,  and  give 
a clear  run  into  Cork  harbor.” 

I sprang  at  once  to  my  legs;  the  land-fog  prevented  my  seeing 
anything  whatever;  but  I thought  that  in  the  breeze,  fresh  and 
balmy  as  it  blew,  I could  feel  the  wind  of  shore.  • 

“ At  last,’^  said  I,  “at  last!”  as  I stepped  into  the  little  wherry 
which  shot  alongside  of  us,  and  we  glided  into  the  still  basin  of 
Cove.  How  I remember  every  white- walled  cottage,  and  the 
beetling  cliffs,  and  that  bold  headland  beside  which  the  valley 
opens,  with  its  dark  green  woods;  and  then  Spike  Island;  and 
what  a stir  is  yonder,  early  as  it  is;  the  men-of-war  tenders  seem . 
alive  with  people,  while  still  the  little  village  is  sunk  in  slumbers, 
not  a smoke-wreath  rising  from  its  silent  hearths;  every  plash  of 
the  oars  in  the  calm  water,  as  I neared  the  land,  every  chance 
word  of  the  bronzed  and  hardly  fishermen,  told  upon  my  heart. 

I felt  it  was  my  home. 

“Isn’t  it  beautiful,  sir;  isn’t  it  elegant?”  said  a voice  behind 
me,  which  there  could  be  little  doubt  in  my  detecting,  although 
I had  not  seen  the  individual  since  I left  England. 


CHARLES  aMALLEY.  201 

“Is  not  what  beautiful; ?*’  replied  I,  rather  harshly,  in  the 
interruption  of  my  own  thoughts. 

“Ireland,  to  be  sure;  and  long  life  to  her!’’  cried  he,  with  a 
cheer,  that  soon  found  its  responsive  echoes  in  the  hearts  of  our 
sailors,  who  seconded  the  sentiment  with  all  their  energy. 

“ How  am  I to  get  up  to  Cork,  lads  ?”  said  I;  “I  am  pressed 
for  time,  and  must  get  forward.” 

“ We’ll  row  your  honor  the  whole  way,  av  it’s  plazing  to 
you.” 

“ Why,  thank  you,  I'd  rather  find  some  quicker  mode  of  pro- 
ceeding.” 

“ May  be  you’d  have  a chaise;  there’s  an  elegant  one,  M’Cas- 
sidy’s.” 

“ Sure  the  blind  mare’s  in  foal,”  said  the  bow  oar;  “ the  devil 
a step  can  she  go  out  of  a walk;  so,  your  honor,  take  Tim 
Riley’s  car,  and  you’ll  get  up  cheap.  Not  that  you  care 
for  money;  but  he’s  going  up  at  eight  o’clock  with  two  young 
ladies.” 

“Oh!  begorra,”  said  the  other,  “and  so  he  is;  and  faix  ye 
might  do  worse — they’re  nice  craytures.” 

“ Well,”  said  I,  “your  advice  seems  good;  but  perhaps  they 
might  object  to  my  company.” 

‘ ‘ I’ve  no  fear;  they’re  always  with  the  officers.  Sure  the  Misses 
Dalrymple ” 

“ The  Misses  Dalrymple!  push  ahead,  boys;  it  must  be  later 
than  I thought:  we  must  get  the  chaise;  I can’t  wait.” 

Ten  minutes  more  brought  us  to  land. 


My  arrangements  were  soon  made,  and  as  my  impatience  to 
press  forward  became  greater  the  nearer  I drew  to  my  destina- 
tion, I lost  not  a moment. 

The  yellow  chaise — sole  glory  of  Cove — was  brought  forth  at 
my  request;  and  by  good  fortune,  four  posters  who  had  been 
down  the  preceding  evening  from  Cork  to  some  gentleman’s  seat 
near,  were  about  to  return.  These  were  also  pressed  into  my 
service;  and  just  as  the  first  early  riser  of  the  little  village  was 
drawing  his  curtain  to  take  a half-closed-eye  glance  upon  the 
breaking  morning,  I rattled  forth  upon  my  journey  at  a pace 
which,  could  I only  have  secured  its  continuance,  must  soon 
have  terminated  my  weary  way. 

Beautiful  as  the  whole  line  of  the  country  is,  I was  totally 
unconscious  of  it;  and  even  Mike’s  conversational  powers, 
divided  as  they  were  between  myself  and  the  two  postilions, 
were  fruitless  in  arousing  me  from  the  deep  pre-occupation  of 
my  mind  by  thoughts  of  home. 

It  was,  then,  with  some  astonishment  I heard  the  boy  upon 
the  wheeler  ask  whither  he  should  drive  me  to. 

“ Tell  his  honor  to  wake  up.  We’re  in  Cork  now.” 

“ In  Cork!  Impossible  already.” 

“ Faith,  may  be  so;  but  it’s  Cork,  sure  enough.” 

“Drive  to  the  ‘ George;’  it’s  not  far  from  the  Commander-in* 
Chief’s  quarters.” 


m 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


“ ’Tis  five  minutes’  walk,  sir.  You’ll  be  there  before  they’re 
put  to  again.” 

‘‘Horses  for  Fermoy!”  shouted  out  the  postilions,  as  we  tore 
up  to  the  door  in  a gallop. 

I sprang  out.  and,  by  the  assistance  of  a waiter,  discovered 
Sir  Henry  Moreton's  quarters,  to  whom  my  dispatches  were 
addressed.  Having  delivered  them  into  the  hands  of  an  aid-de- 
camp,  who  sat  bolt-upright  in  his  bed,  rubbing  his  eyes  to  appear 
awake.  I again  hurried  down-stairs,  and,  throwing  myself  into 
the  chaise,  continued  my  journey. 

“ Them’s  beautiful  streets,  anyhow,”  said  Mike,  “ av  they 
wasn’t  kept  so  dirty,  and  the  houses  so  dark,  and  the  pavement 
bad.  That’s  Mr.  Beamish’s,  that  fine  house  there,  with  the  brass 
rapper  and  the  green  lamp  beside  it;  and  there’s  the  hospital — 
faix.  and  there’s  the  place  we  beat  the  police,  when  I was  here 
before;  and  the  house  with  the  sign  of  the  Highland^^r’s  thrown 
down:  and  what’s  the  big  building  there,  with  the  stone  posts 
at  the  door  ?” 

“ The  bank,  sir,”  said  the  postilion  with  a most  deferential  air, 
as  Mike  addressed  him. 

“ What  bank,  acushla?” 

“ Not  a one  of  me  knows,  sir;  but  they  call  it  the  bank,  tho’ 
it’s  only  an  empty  house.” 

“ Cary  & Moore’s  bank,  perhaps,”  said  I;  having  heard  that  in 
days  long  past  some  such  names  had  failed  in  Cork  for  a large 
amount. 

So  it  is;  your  honor’s  right,”  cried  the  postilion,  while 
Mike,  standing  up  on  the  box,  and  menacing  the  house  with 
his  clinched  fist,  shouted  at  the  very  top  of  his  voice: 

“ Oh,  bad  luck  to  your  cobwebbed  windows  and  iron  railings! 
sure  it’s  my  father’s  son  ought  to  hate  the  sight  of  you.” 

“I  hope,  Mike,  your  father  never  trusted  his  property  in  such 
hands  ?” 

“ 1 don’t  suspect  he  did,  your  honor;  he  never  put  much  belief 
in  the  banks;  but  the  house  cost  him  near  enough  without  that.” 

As  I could  not  help  feeling  some  curiosity  in  this  matter,  I 
pressed  Mickey  for  an  explanation. 

“But  may  be  it’s  not  Cary&  Moore’s,  after  all;  and  I’m,  may 
be,  cursing  decent  people.” 

Having  re-assured  his  mind,  by  telling  him  that  the  reserva- 
tion he  made  by  the  doubt  would  tell  in  their  favor  should  he 
prove  mistaken,  he  afforded  me  the  following  information: 

“ When  my  father — the  heavens  be  his  bed — was  in  the  ‘ Cork  ’ 
they  put  him  one  night  on  guard  at  that  same  big  house  you 
just  passed — av  it  was  the  same;  but  if  it  wasn’t  that  it  was 
another;  and  it  was  a beautiful  fine  night  in  August,  and  the 
moon  up,  and  plenty  of  people  walking  about,  and  all  kinds  of 
fun  and  devilment  going  on — drinking  and  dancing,  and  every- 
thing. 

“Well,  my  father  was  stuck  up  there,  with  his  musket,  to 
walk  up  and,  down, and  not  say,  ‘ God  save  you  kindly,  nor  the 
time  of  day,  nor  anything  but  just  march  as  if  he  was  in  the 
barrack-yard;  and  by  reason  of  his  being  the  man  he  was  he 


CHARLES  aMALLEY, 


203 


didn’t  like  it  half,  but  kept  cursing  and  swearing  to  himself  like 
mad  when  he  saw  pleasant  fellows  and  pretty  girls  going  by, 
laughing  and  joking. 

“ ‘ Good  evening,  Mickey,’  says  one;  ‘ fine  sport  ye  have  all  ito 
yourself,  with  your  long  feather  in  your  cap.’ 

“ ‘ Arrah,  look  how  proud  he  is,’  says  another,  ‘ with  his  head 
up  as  if  he  didn’t  see  a body.’ 

“ ‘ Shoulder  too!’  cried  a drunken  chap,  with  a shovel  in  his 
hand;  they  all  began  laughing  away  at  my  father. 

‘ Let  the  decent  man  alone,’  said  an  old  fellow  in  a wig; 
‘ isn’t  he  guarding  the  bank  wid  all  the  money  in  it  ?’ 

“ ‘ Faix  he  isn’t,’  says  another;  ‘ for  there’s  none  left.’ 

**  ‘ What’s  that  you’re  saying?’  says  my  father. 

‘‘  ‘ Just  that  the  bank’s  broke,  devil  a more,’  says  he. 

**  ‘ And  there’s  no  goold  in  it?’  says  my  father. 

“ ‘Devil  a guinea.’  , 

“ ‘ Nor  silver  ?’ 

“ ‘No,  nor  silver,  nor  as  much  as  sixpence,  either.’ 

“ ‘ Didn’t  ye  hear  that  all  day  yesterday,  when  people  was 
coming  in  with  their  notes,  the  chaps  there  were  heating  the 
guineas  in  a frying-pan,  pretending  they  were  making  them  as  fast 
as  they  could;  and  sure,  when  they  had  a batch  red-hot  they 
spread  them  out  to  cool;  and  what  betune  the  hating  and  cooling, 
and  the  burning  the  fingers  counting  them,  they  kept  the  bank 
open  to  three  o’clock,  and  then  they  ran  away.’ 

“ ‘ Is  it  truth  yer  telling  ?’  says  my  father. 

“ ‘ Sorra  word  o’  lie  in  it!  myself  had  two  and  fourpence  of 
their  notes.’ 

“ ‘ And  so  they’re  broke,’  says  my  father;  ‘ and  nothing  left.’ 

“ ‘ Not  a brass  farthen.’ 

“ ‘ And  what  am  I staying  here  for,  I wonder,  if  there’s  noth- 
ing to  guard!’ 

“ ‘ Faix,  no,  it  isn’t  for  the  pride  of  the  thing ^ 

“ ‘ Oh,  sorrow  taste.’ 

‘Ha,  may  be  for  divarsion.’ 

“ ‘ Nor  that  either.’ 

“ ‘ Well,  then  you  are  a droll  man,  to  spend  the  evening  that 
way,’  says  he,  and  all  the  crowd— for  there  was  a crowd — said  the 
same.  So  with  that  my  father  unscrew^ed  his  bayonet,  and  put 
his  piece  on  his  shoulder,  and  walked  on  to  his  bed  in  the  bar- 
rack as  peaceable  as  need  be.  But  well,  when  they  came  to 
relieve  him,  then  wasn’t  there  a real  commotion;  and  faith,  you 
see,  it  Y/ent  mighty  hard  with  my  father  the  next  morning;  for 
the  bank  was  open  just  as  usual,  and  my  father  was  sintinced 
to  fifty  lashes,  but  got  off  with  a w’eek  in  prison,  and  three 
more  rowling  a big  stone  in  the  barrack  yard!” 

Thus  chattering  away  the  time  passed  over,  until  we  arrived 
at  Fermoy.  Here  there  was  some  little  delay  in  procuring 
horses;  and  during  the  negotiation,  Mike,  who  usually  made 
himself  master  of  the  circumstances  of  every  place  through 
which  he  passed,  discovered  that  f he  grocer’s  shop  of  the  village 
was  kept  by  a namesake,  and  possibly  a relation  of  his  own. 

“I  always  had  a notion,  Mister  Charles,  that  I came  from  a 


V V 

204  CHARLES  C^MALLET. 

good  stock:  and  sure  enough,  here’s  ‘ Mary  Free’  over  the  door 
there,  and  a beautiful  place  inside;  full  of  tay,  and  sugar,  and 
gingerbread,  and  glue,  and  coffee,  and  ban,  pickled  herrings, 
soap,  and  many  other  commodities.” 

“ Perhaps  you’d  like  to  claim  kindred,  Mike,”  said  I,  interrupt- 
ing; “I’m  sure  she’d  feel  flattered  to  discover  a relative  in  a 
Peninsular  hero.” 

“It’s  just  what  I’m  thinking;  as  we  were  going  to  pass  the 
evening  here,  I’d  try  if  I couldn’t  make  her  out  as  second  cousin 
at  least.” 

Fortune  upon  this  occasion  seconded  Mike’s  wishes,  for  when 
the  horses  made  their  appearance,  I learned  to  my  surprise  that 
the  near-side  one  would  not  bear  a saddle,  and  the  off  side  could 
only  run  on  his  own  side.  In  this  conjuncture,  the  postilion  was 
obliged  to  drive  from  what,  Hibernice  speaking,  is  called  the 
perch;  no  ill-applied  denomination  to  a piece  of  wood,  which, 
about  the  thickness  of  one’s  arm,  is  hung  between  the  two  fore- 
springs, and  serves  as  a resting-place,  into  which  the  luckless 
wight,  weary  of  .the  saddle,  is  not  sorry  to  repose  himself. 

“ What’s  to  be  done?”  cried  I,  “ There’s  no  room  within;  my 
traps  barely  leave  space  for  myself  among  them.” 

“Sure,  sir,”  said  the  postilion,  “ the  other  gentleman  can  fol- 
low in  the  morning  coach;  and  if  any  accident  happens  to  your- 
self on  the  road,  by  reason  of  break  down,  he’ll  be  there  as  soon 
as  yourself.” 

This,  at  least,  was  an  agreeable  suggestion,  and  as  I saw  it 
chimed  with  Mike’s  notions,  I acceded  at  once.  Mike  came 
running  up  at  the  moment. 

“ I had  a look  at  her  through  the  window,  Misther  Charles, 
and  faix  she  has  a great  look  of  the  family.” 

“Well,  Mickey,  I’ll  leave  you  twenty-four  hours  to  cultivate 
the  acquaintance,  and  to  a man  like  you  the  time  I know  is 
ample.  Follow  me  by  the  morning’s  coach  to  Swinburn’s,  in 
Limerick.  Till  then  good-bye.” 


CHAPTER  CVIII. 

Away  we  rattled  once  more,  and  soon  left  the  town  behind 
us.  The  wild  mountain  tract  which  stretches  on  either  side  of 
the  road  presented  one  bleak  and  brown  surface,  unrelieved  by 
any  trace  of  tillage  or  habitation — an  apparently  endless  suc- 
cession of  fern-clad  hills  lay  on  every  side — above,  a gloomy 
sky  of  leaden,  lowering  aspect  frowned  darkly — the  sad  and 
wailing  cry  of  the  pewit  or  the  plover  was  the  only  sound  that 
broke  the  stillness — and  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  a dreary 
waste  extended — the  air,  too,  was  cold  and  chilly;  it  was  one  of 
those  days  which  in  our  spring  seem  to  cast  a retrospective 
glance  toward  the  winter  they  have  left  behind  them.  The 
prospect  was  no  cheering  one — from  heaven  above  nor  earth  be- 
low,  there  came  no  sight  nor  sound  of  gladness — the  rich  glow 
of  the  Peninsular  landscape  was  still  fresh  in  my  memory — the 
luxurious  verdure — the  olive,  the  citron,  and  the  vine — the  fair 
valleys  teeming  with  abundance— the  mountains  terraced  with 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


m 

their  vineyards — ^the  blue  transparent  sky  spreading  o’er  all — 
while  the  very  air  was  rife  with  the  cheering  song  of  birds  that 
peopled  every  grove. 

What  a contrast  was  here!  We  traveled  on  for  miles,  but  no 
vision  nor  one  human  face  did  we  see.  Far  in  the  distance  a 
thin  wreath  of  smoke  curled  upward,  but  it  came  from  no 
hearth — it  arose  from  one  of  the  field-fires  by  which  spendthrift 
husbandry  cultivates  the  ground.  It  was,  indeed,  sad,  and  yet, 
I know  not  how,  it  spoke  more  homely  to  my  heart  than  all  the 
brilliant  display  and  all  the  voluptuous  splendor  I had  wicness- 
ed  in  London — the  homely  garb,  the  sorrowing  state  of  those  we 
love  is  no  bar  to  our  affection.  On  the  contrary,  we  are  drawn 
closer  to  them  as  they  bend  their  heads  beneath  the  stroke  of 
worldly  injustice  or  neglect,  and  a sense  of  indignation  mingles 
with  and  strengthens  our  attachment  when  we  see  those  whose 
destinies  should  have  won  a proud  and  powerful  position,  be- 
come, by  the  hard  turn  of  fortune,  lost,  neglected,  abandoned. 
But  a few  days  before,  and  I experienced  to  its  fullest  extent 
my  pride  in  being  a Briton;  but  now,  unexcited  by  fiattery,  un- 
warmed by  any  sense  of  beauty  around,  I felt,  as  the  memory  of 
former  days  came  back,  as  by  some  secret  magic  the  face  and 
fashion  of  my  country  came  rushing  into  my  heart,  that  I glo- 
ried in  being  an  Irishman.  By  degrees  some  traces  of  wood 
made  their  appearance,  and  as  we  descended  the  mountain,  the 
country  assumed  a more  cultiv  aOsd  and  cheerful  look — patches 
of  corn  or  of  meadow-land  stretched  on  either  side,  and 
the  voice  of  children,  and  the  lowing  of  oxen,  mingled  with  the 
cawing  of  the  rooks  as  in  dense  clouds  they  followed  the  plow- 
man’s track.  The  changed  features  of  the  prospect  resembled 
the  alternate  phases  of  the  temperament  in  the  dweller  of  the 
soil — the  gloomy  determination — the  smiling  carelessness — the 
dark  spirit  of  boding — the  reckless  jollity — the  almost  savage 
ferocity  of  purpose,  followed  by  a childlike  docility  and  a 
womanly  softness — the  grave,  the  gay,  the  resolute,  the  fickle, 
the  firm,  the  yielding,  the  unsparing,  and  the  tender- hearted, 
blending  their  contrarieties  into  one  nature,  of  whose  capabilities 
one  cannot  predicate  the  bounds,  but  to  whom,  by  some  luckless 
fatality  of  fortune,  the  great  rewards  of  life  have  been  generally 
withheld  until  he  begins  to  feel  that  the  curse  of  Swift  was  less 
the  sarcasm  wrung  from  indignant  failures,  than  the  cold  and 
stem  prophecy  of  the  moralist. 

But  how  have  I fallen  in  this  strain;  let  me  rather  turn  my 
eyes  forward  toward  my  home;  how  shall  I find  all  there— have 
his  altered  fortunes  damped  the  warm  ardor  of  my  poor  uncle’s 
heart?  Is  his  smile  sicklied  over  by  sorrow,  or  shall  I hear  his 
merry  laugh  and  his  cheerful  voice,  as  in  days  of  yore?  How  I 
longed  to  take  my  place  behind  that  hearth,  and  in  the  same  oak 
chair,  where  I have  sat  telling  the  bold  adventures  of  a fox- 
chase,  or  some  long  day  upon  the  moors — speak  of  the  scenes  of 
my  campaigning  life — and  make  known  to  him  those  gallant 
fellows  by  whose  side  I have  charged  in  battle,  or  sat  in  the 
bivouac.  How  will  he  glory  in  the  soldier-like  spirit  and  daiing 
energy  of  Fred  Power — how  will  he  chuckle  over  the  blundering 


206 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


earnestness  and  Irish  warmth  of  O’Shaughnessy — how  will  he 
laugh  at  the  quaint  stories,  and  quainter  j«'sts  of  Maurice  Quill 
—and  how  often  will  he  wish  once  more  to  be  young  in  hand  as 
in  heart  to  mingle  with  such  gay  fellows,  with  no  other  care,  no 
other  sorrow  to  depress  him,  save  the  passing  fortune  of  a 
soldier’s  life. 

A rude  shock  awoke  me  as  I lay  asleep  in  the  corner  of  the 
chaise;  a shout  followed,  and  the  next  moment  the  door  was 
tom  open,  and  I heard  the  postilion’s  voice  crying  to  me: 

“ Spring  out;  jump  out  quickly,  sir  !” 

A whole  battery  of  kicks  upon  the  front  panel  drowned  the 
rest  of  his  speech;  but  before  I could  obey  his  injunction  he  was 
pitched  upon  the  road,  the  chaise  rolled  over,  and  the  pole 
snapped  short  in  the  middle,  while  two  horses  belabored  the 
carriage  and  each  other  with  all  their  might.  Managing,  as 
well  as  I was  able,  to  extricate  myself,  I leaped  out  upon  the 
road,  and  by  the  aid  of  a knife  and  at  the  cost  of  some  bruises, 
succeeded  in  freeing  the  horses  from  their  tackle.  The  postboy, 
who  had  escaped  without  any  serious  injury,  labored  manfully 
to  aid  me— blubbering  the  whole  time  upon  the  consequences 
his  misfortune  would  bring  down  upon  his  head. 

“ Bad  luck  to  ye!”  cried  he,  apostrophizing  the  off  horse;  a 
tall  raw-boned  beast,  with  a Roman  nose,  a dipped  back,  and  a 
tail  ragged  and  jagged  like  a hand-saw.  “ Bad  luck  to  ye!  there 
never  was  a good  one  of  your  color!” 

This,  for  the  information  of  the  “ unjockied,”  I may  add,  was 
a species  of  brindled  gray. 

“ How  did  it  happen,  Patsey  ? how  did  it  happen,  my  lad?” 

“ It  was  a heap  o’ stones  they  ieft  in  the  road  since  last  au- 
tumn, and  though  I riz  him  at  it  fairly,  he  dragged  the  ould 
mare  over  it  and  broke  the  pole.  Oh,  wirra,  wh  ra  !”  cried  he, 
wringing  his  hands  in  an  agony  of  grief,  “sure  there’s  neither 
luck  nor  grace  to  be  had  with  ye  since  the  day  you  drew  the 
judge  down  to  the  last  assizes.” 

“ Well,  what’s  to  be  done?” 

“ Sorra  a bit  o’  me  knows — ^the  shay’s  ruined  entirely,  and 
the  ould  divil  there  knows  he’s  conquered  us.  Look  at  him 
there,  listening  to  every  word  we’re  saying!  You  eternal  thief! 
may  be  its  ploughing  you’d  like  better.” 

“ Come,  come,”  said  I,  “ this  will  never  get  us  forward.  What 
part  of  the  country  are  we  in  ?” 

“We  left  Banagher  about  four  miles  behind  us;  that’s  Killi- 
mur  you  see  with  th#^  smoke,  there  in  the  hollow.” 

Now.  although  I did  not  see  Killimur  (for  the  gray  mist  of  the 
morning  prevented  me  recognizing  any  object  a few  hundred 
yards  distant),  yet  from  the  direction  in  which  he  pointed,  and 
'^'rom  the  course  of  the  Shannon,  which  I could  trace  distinctly 
for  miles,  I obtained  a pretty  ai^eurate  notion  of  where  we 
were. 

“ Then  we  are  not  very  far  from  Portumna  ?” 

“ Just  a pleasant  walk  before  your  breakfast.” 

“ And  is  there  not  a short  cut  to  O’Malley  Castle  over  that 
paountain  ?” 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


207 


**  Faix  and  so  there  is;  and  ye  can  be  no  stranger  to  these  parts 
if  ye  know  that.” 

“I  have  traveled  it  before  now.  Just  tell  me,  is  the  wooden 
bridge  standing  over  the  little  stream  ? it  used  to  be  carried  away 
every  winter  in  niy  time.” 

“It’s  just  the  same  now.  You’ll  have  to  pass  by  the  upper 
ford;  but  it  comes  to  the  same,  for  that  will  bring  ye  to  the  back 
gate  of  the  demense,  and  one  way  is  just  as  short  as  the  other.” 

“ I know  it,  I know  it;  so  now  do  you  follow  me  with  my  lug- 
gage to  the  castle,  and  I’ll  set  out  on  foot.  ” 

saying,  I threw  off  my  cloak  and  prepared  myself  for  a 
sharp  walk  of  some  eight  miles  over  the  mountain.  As  I reached 
the  little  knoll  of  land  which,  overlooking  the  Shannon,  affords 
a view  of  several  miles  in  every  direction,  I stopped  to  gaze 
upon  the  scene  where  every  object  around  was  familiar  to  me 
from  infancy.  The  broad,  majestic  river  sweeping  in  bold 
curves  between  the  wild  mountains  of  Connaught  and  the 
wooded  hills  and  cultivated  slopes  of  tlie  more  fertile  Munster — 
the  tall  chimneys  of  many  a house  rose  above  the  dense  woods, 
wherein  my  boyhood  I had  spent  hours  and  days  of  happiness. 
One  last  look  I turned  toward  the  scene  of  my  late  catastrophe, 
ere  I began  to  ascend  the  mountain.  The  postboy,  with  the 
happy  fatalism  of  his  country,  and  a firm  trust  in  the  future, 
had  established  himself  in  the  interior  of  the  chaise,  from  which 
a blue  curl  of  smoke  wreathed  upward  from  his  pipe;  the  horses 
grazed  contentedly  by  the  roadside,  and  were  I to  judge  from 
the  evidence  before  me,  I should  say  that  I was  the  only  mem- 
ber of  the  party  inconvenienced  by  the  accident.  A thin  sleet- 
ing of  rain  began  to  fall,  the  wdnd  blew  sharply  in  my  face,  and 
the  dark  clouds  collecting  in  masses  above,  seemed  to  threaten  a 
storm.  Without  stopping  for  even  a passing  look  at  the  many 
well-known  spots  about,  I passed  rapidly  on.  My  old  experience 
upon  the  moors  had  taught  me  that  sling  trot  in  which,  jumping 
from  hillock  to  hillock,  over  the  boggy  surface,  you  succeeded 
in  accomplishing  your  journey  not  only  with  considerable  speed, 
but  perfectly  dry  shod. 

By  the  lonely  path  which  I traveled,  it  was  unlikely  I should 
meet  any  one;  it  was  rarely  traversed  except  by  the  foot  of  the 
sportsman  or  some  stray  messenger  from  the  castle  to  the  town 
of  Banagher.  Its  solitude,  however,  was  in  no  wise  distasteful 
to  me;  my  heart  was  full  to  bursting.  Each  moment  as  I 
walked,  some  new  feature  of  my  home  presented  itself  before 
me;  now,  it  was  all  happiness  and  comfort;  the  scene  of  its 
ancient  hospitable  board,  its  warm  hearth,  its  happy  faces,  and 
its  ready  welcome,  were  all  before  me,  and  I increased  my  speed 
to  the  utmost,  when  suddenly  a sense  of  sad  and  sorrowing  fore- 
boding would  draw|around  me,  and  the  image  of  my  uncle’s  sick- 
bed; his  worn  features,  his  pallid  look,  his  broken  voice,  would 
strike  upon  my  heart,  and  all  the  changes  that  poverty,  desertion 
and  decay  can  bring  to  pass  would  fall  upon  my  heart,  and 
weak  and  trembling  I would  stand  for  some  moments  unable  to 
proceed. 

Ohl  how  many  a reproacniul  thought  came  home  to  me,  at 


208 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


what  I scrupled  not  to  call  to  myself  the  desertion  of  my  home* 
Oh!  how  many  a prayer  I uttered  in  all  the  fervor  of  devotion, 
that  my  selfish  waywardness,  and  my  yearning  for  ambition, 
might  not  bring  upon  mein  after  life  years  of  unavailing  regret. 
As  I thought  thus  I reached  tlie  brow  of  a little  mountain  ridge, 
beneath  which,  at  a distance  of  scarcely  more  than  a mile,  the 
dark  woods  of  O’Malley  Castle  stretched  before  me.  The  house 
itself  was  not  visible,  for  it  was  situated  in  a valley  beside  the 
river:  but  there  lay  the  whole  scene  of  my  boyhood,  there  th? 
little  creek  where  my  boat  was  kept,  and  where  I landed  on  the 
morning  after  my  duel  with  Bodkin;  there  stretched  for  many  a 
mile  the  large  callow  meadows,  where  1 trained  my  horses  and 
schooled  them  for  the  coming  season:  and  far  in  the  distance, 
the  brown  and  rugged  peak  of  old  Scariff  was  lost  in  the  clouds. 
The  rain  by  this  time  had  ceased,  the  wind  had  fallen,  and  an 
almost  unnatural  stillness  prevailed  around.  But  yet  tlie  heavy 
masses  of  vapor  frowned  ominously,  and  the  leaden  hue  of  land 
and  water  wore  a gloomy  and  depressing  aspect.  My  impa- 
tience to  get  on  increased  every  moment,  and,  descending  the 
mountain  at  the  top  of  my  speed,  I at  length  reached  the  little 
oak  paling  that  skirted  the  wood,  opened  the  little  wicket,  and 
entered  the  little  path.  It  was  the  self-same  one  I had  trod  in 
reverie  and  meditation  the  night  before  I left  my  home,  I re- 
member, too,  sitting  down  beside  the  little  well  which,  inclosed 
in  a frame  of  rock,  ran  trickling  across  the  little  path,  to  be  lost 
among  the  gnarled  roots  and  fallen  leaves  around — yes,  this  is 
the  very  spot. 

Overcome  for  the  instant  by  my  exertion  and  my  emotion,  I 
sat  down  upon  the  stone,  and  taking  off  my  cap,  bathed  my 
heated  and  throbbing  temples  in  the  cold  spring.  Eef reshed  at 
once,  I was  about  to  rise  and  press  onward,  when  suddenly  my 
attention  was  caught  by  a sound  which,  faint  from  distance, 
scarce  struck  upon  my  ear.  I listened  again,  but  all  was  still 
and  silent;  the  dull  plash  of  the  river  as  it  broke  upon  the  reedy 
shore  was  the  only  sound  I beard.  Thinking  it  probably  some 
mere  delusion  of  my  heated  imagination,  I rose  to  push  forward, 
but  at  the  moment  a slight  breeze  stirred  in  the  leaves  around 
me,  the  light  branches  rustled  and  bent  beneath  it,  and  a low, 
moaning  sound  rose  upward,  increasing  each  instant  as  it  came; 
like  the  distant  roar  of  some  mighty  torrent  it  grew  louder  as 
the  wind  bore  it  toward  me,  and  now  falling  and  now  swelling, 
it  burst  forth  in  one  prolonged  cry  of  agony  and  grief.  Oh, 
God!  it  was  the  death -wail.  I fell  upon  my  knees,  my  hands 
clasped  in  agony,  the  sweat  of  misery  dropping  off  my  brow, 
and  with  a heart -bleeding  and  breaking  I prayed — I know  not 
what.  Again  the  terrible  cry  smote  upon  my  ear,  and  I could 
mark  the  horrible  cadences  of  the  death-song  as  the  voices  of  the 
mourners  joined  in  chorus. 

My  suspense  became  too  great  to  bear.  I dashed  madly  for- 
ward, one  sound  still  ringing  in  my  ears,  one  horrid  inaage 
before  ray  eyes;  I reached  the  garden  wall,  I cleared  the  little 
rivulet  beside  the  flower-garden,  I traversed  its  beds,  neglect- 
ed and  decayed,  I gained  the  avenue,  taking  no  heed  of  the 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


209 


crowds  before  me,  some  on  foot,  some  on  horseback,  others 
mounted  upon  the  low,  country  car,  many  seated  in  groups 
upon  the  grass,  their  heads  bowed  upon  their  bosoms,  silent 
and  speechless.  As  I neared  the  house  the  whole  approach 
was  crowded  with  carriages  and  horsemen;  at  the  foot 
of  the  large  flight  of  steps  stood  the  black  and  mourn- 
ful hearse,  its  plumes  nodding  in  the  breeze.  With  the 
speed  of  madness  and  the  recklessness  of  despair,  I tore  my 
way  through  the  thickly  standing  groups  upon  the  steps.  I 
could  not  speak,  I could  not  utter.  Once  more  the  frightful  cry 
swelled  upward,  and  its  wild  notes  seemed  to  paralyze  me,  for, 
with  my  hands  upon  my  temples,  I stood  motionless  and  still;  a 
heavy  iootfall,  as  of  persons  marching  in  procession,  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  and  as  the  sounds  without  sank  into  sobs  of 
bitterness  and  woe,  the  black  pall  of  a coffin,  borne  on  men’s 
shoulders,  appeared  at  the  door,  and  an  old  man,  whose  gray 
hair  floated  in  the  breeze,  and  across  whose  stern  features  a 
struggle  for  self-mastery,  a kind  of  paralytic  jerk  was  playing, 
held  out  his  hand  to  enforce  silence.  His  eyes,  lack-luster,  and 
dimmed  with  age,  roved  over  the  assembled  multitude,  but 
there  was  no  recognition  in  Ids  look  until  at  last  he  turned  it  on 
me;  a slight  hectic  flush  covered  his  pale  cheek,  his  lips  trem- 
bled, he  essayed  to  speak,  but  could  not;  I sprang  toward  him, 
but  choked  by  agony  I could  not  utter;  my  look,  however, 
spoke  what  my  tongue  could  not;  he  threw  his  arms  around 
me,  and  muttering  Ihe  words,  “poor  Godfrey,”  pointed  to 
the  coffin. 


CHAPTEE  CIX. 

HOME. 

Many,  many  years  have  passed  away  since  the  time  I am  now 
about  to  speak  of,  and  yet  I cannot  revert,  even  for  a moment, 
to  the  period,  without  a sad  and  depressing  feeling  at  my  heart. 
The  wreck  of  fortune,  the  thwarting  of  ambition,  the  failure  in 
enterprise,  great  though  they  be,  are  endurable  evils;  the  never- 
dying  hope  that  youth  is  blessed  with,  will  And  its  resting-place 
still  within  the  breast,  and  the  baffled  and  beaten  vrill  struggle 
on  unconquered;  but  for  the  death  of  friends,  for  the  loss  of 
those  in  whom  our  dearest  affections  were  centered,  there  is  no 
solace;  the  terrible  “never”  of  the  grave  knows  no  remorse, 
and  even  memory,  that  in  our  saddest  hours  can  bring  bright 
images  and  smiling  faces  before  us,  calls  up  here  only  the  de- 
parted shade  of  happiness,  a passing  lock  at  that  even  of  our 
joys  from  which  we  are  separated  forever.  And  tlie  desolation 
of  the  heart  is  never  perfect  till  it  has  felt  the  echoes  of  a last 
farewell  on  earth  reverberating  within  it. , 

Oh,  with  what  tortures  of  self-reproach  we  think  of  all  former 
intercourse  with  him  that  is  gone!  How  would  we  wish  to  live 
over  our  lives  once  more,  correcting  each  passage  of  unkindness 
or  neglect!  How  deeply  do  we  blame  ourselves  for  occasions  of 
benefit  lost,  and  opportunities  unprofited  by!  and  how  unceas- 
ingly through  after-life  the  memory  of  the  departed  recurs  to 


210 


CH ARLES  a M ALLEY. 


us.  In  all  the  ties  which  affection  and  kindred  weave  around 
us,  one  vacant  spot  is  there,  unseen  and  unknown  by  others, 
which  no  blandishments  of  love,  no  caresses  of  friendship  can 
fill  up;  although  the  rank  grass  and  the  tall  weeds  of  the  church- 
yard may  close  around  the  humble  tomb,  the  cemetery  of  the 
heart  is  holy  and  sacred,  pure  from  all  the  troubled  thoughts 
and  daily  cares  of  the  busy  world.  To  that  hallowed  spot  do  we 
retire  as  into  our  chamber,  and  when  unrewarded  efforts  bring 
discomfiture  and  misery  to  our  minds,  when  friends  are  false, 
and  cherished  hopes  are  blasted,  we  think  on  those  who  never 
ceased  to  love  till  they  had  ceased  to  live,  and  in  the  lonely  soli- 
tude of  our  affliction  we  call  upon  those  who  hear  not  and  may 
never  return. 


Mine  was  a desolate  hearth.  I sat  moodily  down  in  the  old  oak 
parlor,  my  heart  bowed  down  with  grief.  The  noiseless  steps — 
the  mourning  garments  of  the  old  servants — the  unnatural 
silence  of  those  walls,  witliin  which  from  my  infancy  the  sounds 
of  merriment  and  mirth  had  been  familiar — the  large,  old-fash- 
ioned chair  where  he  w^as  wont  to  sit,  now  placed  against  the 
wall — all  spoke  of  the  sad  past.  Yet,  when  some  footsteps 
would  draw  near,  and  the  door  w ould  open,  I could  not  repress  a 
thrill  of  hope  that  he  was  coming;  more  than  once  I rushed  to 
the  window  and  looked  out;  I could  have  sworn  I heard  his 
voice. 

The  old  cob  pony  he  used  to  ride  was  grazing  peacefully  before 
the  door;  poor  Carlo,  his  favorite  spaniel,  lay  stretched  upon 
the  terrace,  turning  ever  and  anon  a look  toward  the  window, 
and  then,  as  if  wearied  watching  for  him  who  came  not,  he 
would  utter  a long,  low,  wailing  cry,  and  lie  down  again  to 
sleep.  The  rich  lawn,  decked  with  field  fiowers  of  many  a hue, 
stretched  away  toward  the  river,  upon  whose  calm  surface  the 
white-sailed  lugger  scarce  seemed  to  move;  the  sounds  of  a well- 
known  Irish  air  came,  softened  by  distance,  as  some  poor  fisher- 
man sat  mending  his  net  upon  the  shore,  and  the  laugh  of  chil- 
dren floated  on  the  breeze.  Yes,  they  were  happy! 

Two  months  had  elapsed  since  my  return  home;  how  passed 
by  me  I know  not;  a lethargic  stupor  had  settled  upon  me. 
Whole  days  long  I sat  at  the  window,  looking  listlessly  at  the 
tranquil  river,  and  watching  the  white  foam  as,  borne  down 
from  the  rapids,  it  floated  lazily  along.  The  Count  had  left  me 
soon,  being  called  up  to  Dublin  by  some  business,  and  I was  ut 
terly  alone.  The  different  families  about  called  frequently  to 
ask  for  me,  and  would,  doubtless,  have  done  all  in  their  power 
to  alleviate  my  sorrow,  and  lighten  the  load  of  my  affliction; 
but,  with  a morbid  fear,  I avoided  every  one,  and  rarely  left  the 
house  except  at  nightfall,  and  then  only  to  stroll  by  some  lonely 
and  deserted  path. 

Life  had  lost  its  charms  for  me;  my  gratified  ambition  had 
ended  in  the  blackest  disappointment;  and  all  for  which  I had 
labored  and  longed,  was  only  attained  that  I might  feel  it  value- 
less. 


GHARLBS  SMALLEY, 


211 


Of  my  circumstances  as  to  fortune  I knew  nothing,  and  cared 
not  more;  poverty  and  riches  could  matter  little  now;  all  my 
day-dreams  were  dissipated  and  gone;  and  I only  waited  for 
Considine’s  return,  to  leave  Ireland  forever.  I had  made  up  my 
mind,  if,  by  any  unexpected  turn  of  fate,  the  war  should  cease 
in  the  Peninsula,  to  exchange  into  an  India  regiment.  The  daily 
association  with  objects  which  recalled  but  one  image  to  my 
brain,  and  that  ever  accompanied  by  remorse  of  conscience,  gave 
me  not  a moment’s  peace.  My  every  thought  of  happiness  was 
mixed  up  with  scenes  which  now  presented  nothing  but  evi- 
dences of  blighted  hopes;  to  remain  then  where  I was,  would  be 
to  sink  into  the  heartless  misanthrope,  and  I resolved  that,  with 
my  sword,  I should  carve  out  a soldier’s  fortune  and  a soldier’s 
grave. 

Considine  came  at  last.  I was  sitting  alone  at  my  usual  post, 
beside  the  window,  when  the  chaise  rattled  up  to  the  door;  for 
an  instant  I started  to  my  legs;  a vague  sense  of  something  like 
hope  shot  through  me;  the  whole  might  be  a dream,  and  be — 
the  next  moment  I became  cold  and  sick;  a faintish  giddiness 
obscured  my  sight;  and  though  I felt  his  grasp  as  he  took  my 
hand,  I saw  him  not. 

An  indistinct  impression  still  dwells  upon  my  mind  of  his 
chiding  me  for  my  weakness  in  thus  giving  way;  of  his  calling 
upon  me  to  assert  my  position,  and  discharging  the  duties  of 
him  whose  successor  I now  was.  I heard  him  in  silence;  and 
when  he  concluded,  faintly  pledging  myself  to  obey  him,  I hur- 
ried to  my  room,  and  throwing  myself  upon  my  bed,  burst  into 
an  agony  of  tears.  Hitherto  my  pent-up  sorrow  had  wasted  me 
day  by  day;  but  the  rock  was  now  smote,  and  in  that  gush  of 
misery  my  heart  found  relief. 

When  I appeared  the  following  morning,  the  Count  was  struck 
with  my  altered  looks;  a settled  sorrow  could  not  conceal  the 
changes  which  time  and  manhood  had  made  upon  me,  and,  as 
from  a kind  of  fear  of  showing  how  deeply  I grieved,  I endeav- 
ored to  conceal  it,  by  dtigrees  I was  enabled  to  converse  calmly 
and  dispassionately  upon  my  fortunes. 

“Poor  Godfrey  appointed  me  bis  sole  executor  a few  days 
before  it  happened;  he  knew  the  time  was  drawing  near,  and, 
strange  enough,  Charley,  though  he  heard  of  your  return  to 
England,  he  would  not  let  us  write.  The  papers  spoke  of  you  as 
being  at  Carlton  House  almost  daily ; your  name  appeared  at 
every  great  festival;  and,  while  his  heart  warmed  at  your  brill- 
iant success,  he  absolutely  dreaded  your  coming  home.  ‘ Poor 
fellow,’  he  would  say,  ‘ what  a change  for  him,  to  leave  the  splen- 
dor and  magnificence  of  his  prince’s  board  for  our  meager  fare 
and  altered  fortunes;  and  then,’  he  added,  ‘as  for  me — God  for- 
give me — I can  go  now — but  how  should  I bear  to  part  with  him, 
if  he  comes  back  to  me  ?’ 

“ And  now,”  said  the  Count,  when  he  had  concluded  a detail- 
ed history  of  my  dear  uncle’s  last  illness,  “and  now,  Charley, 
what  are  your  plans  ?” 

Briefly,  and  in  a few  words,  I stated  to  him  my  intentions. 
Without  placing  much  stress  upon  the  strongest  of  my  reasons 


212 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


— my  distaste  to  what  had  once  been  home — I avowed  my  wish 
to  join  my  regiment  at  once. 

He  heard  me  with  evident  impatience;  and,  as  I finished, 
seized  my  arm  in  his  strong  grasp.  ‘‘  No,  no,  boy,  none  of  this; 
your  tone  of  assumed  composure  cannot  impose  on  Bill  Considine. 
You  must  not  return  to  the  Peninsula — at  least  not  yet  awhile; 
the  disgust  of  life  may  be  strong  at  twenty;  but  it’s  not  lasting; 
besides,  Charley,”  here  his  voice  faltered  slightly,  "*his  wishes 
you’ll  not  treat  lightly.  Read  this.” 

As  he  spoke  he  took  a blotted  and  ill- written  letter  from  his 
breast  pocket,  and  handed  it  to  me.  It  was  in  my  poor  uncle’s 
hand,  and  dated  the  very  morning  of  his  death.  It  ran  thus: 

‘‘  Dear  Bill, — Charley  must  never  part  with  the  old  house, 
come  what  will;  I leave  too  many  ties  behind  for  a stranger’s 
heritage;  he  must  live  among  my  old  friends,  and  w^atch,  pro- 
tect and  comfort  them.  He  has  done  enough  for  fame;  let  him 
now  do  something  for  affection.  We  have  none  of  us  been  over 
good  to  these  poor  people;  one  of  the  name  must  try  and  save 
our  credit.  God  bless  you  both;  it  is,  perhaps,  the  last  time  I 
shall  utter  it.  G.  O’M.” 

I read  these  few,  and,  to  me,  affecting  lines,  over  and  over, 
forgetful  of  all,  save  of  him  who  penned  them;  when  Considine, 
who  supposed  that  my  silence  was  attributed  to  doubt  and  hesi- 
tation, called  out: 

“ Well,  what  now?’^ 

“ I remain,”  said  I,  briefly. 

He  seized  me  in  his  arms  with  transport,  as  he  said: 

‘‘  I knew  it,  boy;  I knew  it.  They  told  me  you  were  spoiled 
by  flattery,  and  your  head  turned  by  fortune;  they  said  that 
home  and  country  would  weigh  lightly  in  the  balance  against 
fame  and  glory;  but  I said  no.  I knew  you  better.  I told  them  in- 
dignantly that  I had  nursed  you  on  my  knee;  that  I watched 
you  from  infancy  to  boyhood,  from  boy  to  man;  that  he  of 
whose  stock  you  came,  had  one  feeling  paramount  to  all,  his 
love  of  his  own  fatherland,  and  that  you  would  not  disgrace 
him;  besides,  Charley,  there’s  not  an  1 umble  heart  for  many  a 
lone  mile  around  us,  amid  the  winter’s  blast,  tempered,  not  ex- 
cluded, by  the  frail  walls,  and  poverty  that  would  elsewhere 
dry  up  the  fountain  of  the  heart;  there’s  not  one  such,  but 
where  poor  Godfrey’s  name  rises  each  night  in  prayer;  and 
blessings  are  invoked  on  him  by  those  who  never  felt  them.” 

“ I’ll  not  desert  them.” 

‘'I  know  you’ll  not,  boy;  I know  you’ll  not.  Now  for  the 
means.” 

Here  he  entered  into  a long  and  complicated  exposure  of  my 
dear  uncle’s  many  difficulties;  by  which  it  appeared,  that,  in 
order  to  leave  the  estate  free  of  debt  to  me,  he  had,  for  years 
past,  undergone  severe  privations;  these,  however,  such  is  the 
misfortune  of  unguided  effort,  had  but  ill  succeeded,  and  there 
was  scarcely  a farm  on  the^  property  without  its  mortgage. 
Upon  the  house  and  demesne,  a bond  f(>r  three  thousand  poundg 


CHARLES  am  ALLEY,  SI  3 

still  remained;  and,  to  pay  off  this,  Considine  advised  my  sell- 
ing a portion  of  the  property. 

“ It’s  old  Blake  lent  the  money;  and  only  a week  before  your 
uncle  died,  he  served  a notice  for  repayment;  I never  told  God- 
frey; it  was  no  use;  it  could  only  imbitter  his  last  few  hours; 
and,  besides,  we  had  six  months  to  think  of  it;  the  half  of  that 
time  has  now  elapsed,  however;  we  must  see  to  this.” 

“ And  did  Blake  really  make  this  demand,  knowing  my  poor 
uncle’s  difficulties?” 

Why,  I half  think  he  did  not;  for  Godfrey  was  too  fine  a 
fellow  ever  to  acknowledge  anything  of  the  sort.  He  had 
twelve  sheep  killed  for  the  poor  at  Scariff,  at  a time  when  not 
a servant  of  the  house  tasted  meat  for  months;  ay,  and  our 
table,  too,  none  of  the  most  abundant,  I assure  you.” 

What  a picture  was  this!  and  how  forcibly  dfd  it  remind  me 
of  what  I had  witnessed  in  times  past.  Thus  meditating,  we 
returned  to  the  house,  and  Considine,  whose  activity  never 
slumbered,  sat  down  to  con  over  the  rent-roll  with  old  Maguire, 
the  steward. 

When  I joined  the  Count  in  the  evening,  I found  him  sur- 
rounded by  maps,  rent-rolls,  surveys,  and  leases.  He  had  been 
poring  over  these  various  documents,  to  ascertain  from  which 
portion  of  the  property  we  could  best  recruit  our  falling  fi- 
nances; to  judge  from  the  embarrassed  look  and  manner  with 
which  he  met  me,  the  matter  was  one  of  no  small  difficult3^ 
The  incumbrances  upon  the  estate  had  been  incurred  with  an 
unsparing  hand;  and  except  where  some  irreclaimable  tract  of 
bog  or  mountain  rendered  a loan  impracticable,  each  portion  of 
the  property  had  its  share  of  debt. 

“You  can’t  sell  Killantry,  for  Basset  has  above  six  thousand 
pounds  upon  it  already;  to  be  sure,  there’s  the  Priest’s  Meadows 
—fine  land  and  in  good  heart — but  Maloay  was  an  old  tenant  of 
the  family,  and  I cannot  recommend  your  turning  him  over  to  a 
stranger.  The  widow  M’Bride’s  farm  is,  perhaps,  the  best  after 
all,  and  it  would  certainly  bring  the  sum  we  want;  still,  poor 
Mary  was  your  nurse,  Charley,  and  it  would  break  her  heart  to 
do  it.” 

Thus,  wherever  we  turned,  some  obstacle  presented  itself,  if 
not  from  moneyed  causes,  at  least  from  those  ties  and  associa- 
tions which,  in  an  attached  and  faithful  tenantry,  are  sure  to 
originate  between  thernselves  and  the  owner  of  the  soil. 

Feeling  how  all-important  these  things  were — endeavoring  as 
I was  to  fulfill  the  will  and  work  out  the  Intentions  of  my 
uncle — I saw  at  once,  that  to  sell  any  portion  of  the  property 
must  separate  me,  to  a certain  extent,  from  those  who  long 
looked  up  to  our  house,  and  who,  in  the  feudalism  of  the  west, 
could  ill  withdraw  their  allegiance  from  their  own  chief  to 
swear  fealty  to  a stranger.  The  richer  tenants  were  those  whose 
industry  and  habits  rendered  them  objects  of  worth  and  attach- 
ment; to  the  poorer  ones,  to  whose  improvidence  and  whose 
follies  (if  you  will)  their  poverty  was  owing,  I was  bound  by 
those  ties  which  the  ancient  habit  of  my  house  had  contracted 
for  centuries;  the  bond  of  benefit  conferred  can  be  stronger 


214 


CHAELE8  OMALLEY. 


than  the  debt  of  gratitude  itself.  Whatwas  I then  to  do?  My 
income  would  certainly  permit  of  my  paying  the  interest  upon 
several  mortgages,  and  still  retaining  wherewithal  to  live;  the 
payment  of  Blake’s  bond  was  my  only  difficulty,  and,  small  as 
it  was,  it  was  still  a difficulty. 

“I  have  it,  Charley,”  said  Considine;  “I've  found  out  the 
way  of  doing  it.  Blake  will  have  no  objection,  I’m  sure,  to  take 
this  widow's  farm  in  payment  of  his  debt,  giving  you  a power 
of  redemption  within  five  years.  In  that  time,  what  with 
economy — some  management— perhaps,”  added  he,  smiling, 
“perhaps  a wife  with  money,  may  relieve  all  your  embarrass- 
ments at  once.  Well,  well,  I know  you  are  not  thinking  of 
that  just  now;  but  come,  what  say  you  to  my  plan  ?” 

“I  know  not  well  what  to  say.  It  seems  to  be  the  best;  but 
still  I have  my  misgivings.” 

“Of  course  you  have,  my  boy;  nor  could  I love  you  if  you’d 
part  with  an  old  and  faithful  follower  without  them.  But,  after 
all.  she  is  only  an  hostage  tc  the  enemy;  we’ll  win  her  back, 
Charley.” 

“ If  you  think  so ” 

“Ido.  I know  it.” 

“Well,  then,  be  it  so;  only  one  thing  I bargain — she  must  her- 
self consent  to  this  change  of  masters.  It  will  seem  to  her  a 
harsh  measure,  that  the  child  she  had  nursed  and  fondled  in  her 
arms,  should  live  to  disunite  her  from  those  her  oldest  attach- 
ments upon  earth . We  must  take  care,  sir,  that  Blake  can- 

not dispossess  her;  this  would  be  to  hard.” 

“No,  no;  that  we’ll  guard  against;  and  now,  Charley,  with 
prudence  and  caution  we’ll  clear  off  every  incumbrance,  and 
O’Malley  Castle  shall  yet  be  \vhat  it  was  in  days  of  yore.  Ay, 
boy!  with  the  descendant  of  the  old  house  for  its  master,  and 
not  that  General — how  do  you  call  him? — that  came  down  here 
to  contest  ^the  county,  who,  with  his  offer  of  thirty  thousand 
pounds,  thought  to  uproot  the  oldest  family  of  the  west.  Did 
I ever  show  you  the  letter  we  wrote  him  ?” 

“ No,  sir,”  replied  I,  trembling  with  agitation  as  I si)oke;  “ you 
merely  alluded  to  it  in  one  of  yours.” 

“Look  here,  lad!”  said  he,  drawing  it  from  the  recesses  of  a 
black-leather  pocketbook.  “I  took  a copy  of  it;  read  that.” 

The  document  was  dated  “ O’Malley  Castle,  Dec.  9th.”  It  ran 
thus: 

“ Sm, — I have  this  moment  learnt  from  my  agent,  that  you,  or 
some  one  empowered  by  you  for  the  purpose,  made  an  offer  of 
several  thousand  pounds  to  buy  up  the  different  naortgages  upon 
my  property,  with  a subsequent  intention  of  becoming  its  possess  • 
or.  Now,  sir,  I beg  to  tell  you,  that  if  your  ungentleman- like 
and  underhand  plot  had  succeeded,  you  dared  not  darken  with 
your  shadow  the  door-sill  of  the  house  you  purchased.  Neither 
your  gold  nor  your  flattery — and  I hear  you  are  rich  in  both — 
could  wipe  out  from  the  minds  and  hearts  of  my  poor  tenantry 
the  kindness  of  centuries.  Be  advised  then,  sir;  withdraw  your 
offer;  let  a Galway  gentleman  settle  his  own  difficulties  his  own 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


215 


way;  his  troubles  and  cares  are  quite  sufficient,  without  your 
adding  to  them.  There  can  be  but  one  mode  in  which  your 
interference  with  him  can  be  deemed  acceptable;  need  I tell  you, 
sir,  who  are  a soldier,  how  that  is?  As  I know  your  official 
duties  are  important,  and  as  my  nephew — who  feels  with  me 
perfectly  in  this  business — is  abroad,  I can  only  say  that  failing 
health  and  a broken  frame  will  not  prevent  my  undertaking  a 
journey  to  England,  should  my  doing  so  meet  your  wishes  on 
this  occasion. 

“ I am,  sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

Godfrey  O’Malley.” 

This  letter,”  continued  Considine,  “ Unclosed  in  an  envelope, 
with  the  following  few  lines  of  my  own: 

“ ‘ Count  Considine  presents  his  compliments  to  Lieutenant 
General  Dashwood,  and  feeling  that,  as  a friend  of  Mr.  Godfrey 
O’Malley,  the  mild  course  pursued  by  that  gentleman  may  pos- 
sibly be  attributed  to  his  suggestion,  he  begs  to  assure  General 
Dashwood  that  the  reverse  was  the  case,  and  that  he  strenuously 
counseled  the  propriety  of  laying  a horsewhip  upon  the  General’s 
shoulders,  as  a preliminary  step  in  the  transaction. 

“ ‘ Count  Considine’s  address  is  No.  16,  Kildare  street.’  ” 

Great  God  I”  said  I,  “is  this  possible  ?” 

“Well  may  you  say  so,  my  boy;  for — would  you  believe  it? — 
after  all  that,  he  writes  a long,  blundering  apology  protesting,  I 
know  not  what,  about  motives  of  former  friendship,  and  term- 
inating with  a civil  hint  that  we  have  done  with  him  forever. 
And  of  my  paragraph  he  takes  no  notice,  and  thus  ends  the 
whole  affair.” 

“ And  with  it  my  last  hope,”  muttered  I to  myself. 

That  Sir  George  Dashwood’s  intentions  had  been  misconstrued 
and  mistaken  I knew  perfectly  well;  that  nothing  but  the  ac- 
cumulated evils  of  poverty  and  sickness  could  have  induced  my 
poor  uncle  to  write  such  a letter  I was  well  aware;  but  now,  the 
mischief  was  accomplished — the  evil  was  done,  and  nothing  re- 
mained but  to  bear  with  patience  and  submission,  and  to  en- 
deavor to  forget  what  had  thus  become  irremediable. 

“ Sir  George  Dashwood  made  no  allusion  to  me,  sir,  in  his  re- 
ply ?”  inquired  I,  catching  at  anything  like  a hope. 

“Your  name  never  occurred  in  his  letter.  But  you  look  pale, 
boy;  all  these  discussions  come  too  early  upon  you;  besides,  you 
stay  too  much  at  home,  and  take  no  exercise.” 

So  saying,  Considine  bustled  off  toward  the  stables  to  look 
after  some  young  horses  that  had  just  been  taken  up;  and  I 
walked  out  alone  to  ponder  over  what  I had  heard,  and  meditate 
on  my  plans  for  the  future. 


CHAPTER  CX. 

AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE. 

As  I wandered  on,  the  irritation  of  my  spirits  gradually  sub- 
sided. It  was,  to  be  sure,  distressing  to  think  over  the  light  in 
which  my  uncle’s  letter  placed  me  before  3ir  George  Dash- 


216 


CHARLES  O^MALLETe 


wood,  had  even  my  reputation  only  with  him  been  at  stake;  but 
with  my  attachment  to  his  daughter  it  was  almost  maddening. 
And  yet  there  was  nothing  to  be  done;  to  disavow  my  participa- 
tion would  be  to  throw  discredit  upon  m3"  uncle.  Thus  were  my 
hopes  blighted;  and  thus,  at  that  season  when  life  was  opening 
upon  me,  did  I feel  careless  and  indifferent  to  everything.  Had 
my  military  career  still  remained  to  me,  that,  at  least,  would 
have  suggested  scenes  sufficient  to  distract  me  from  the  past: 
but  now  my  days  must  be  spent  where  every  spot  teemed  with 
memories  of  by-gone  happiness  and  joys  never  to  come  back 
again. 

My  mind  was,  however,  made  up;  and,  without  speaking  a 
word  to  Considine,  I turned  homeward,  and  sat  down  at  my 
writing-table.  In  a few  brief  lines  I informed  my  army  agent 
of  my  intention  of  leaving  the  service,  and  desired  that  he  would 
sell  out  for  me  at  once.  Fearing  lest  my  resolution  might  not 
be  proof  against  the  advice  and  solicitation  of  my  friends,  I cau- 
tioned him  against  giving  my  address,  or  any  clew  by  which 
letters  might  reach  me. 

This  done,  I addressed  a short  note  to  Mr.  Blake,  requesting 
to  know  the  name  of  his  solicitor,  in  whose  hands  the  bond 
was  placed,  and  announcing  my  intention  of  immediate  repay- 
ment. 

Trifling  as  these  details  were  in  themselves,  1 cannot  help  re- 
cording how  completely  they  changed  the  whole  cuiTent  of  my 
thoughts.  A new  train  of  interests  began  to  spring  up  within 
me;  and  where  so  lately  the  clang  of  the  battle— the  ardor  of  the 
march — the  careless  ease  of  the  bivouac — had  engrossed  every 
feeling,  now  more  humble  and  homely  thoughts  succeeded;  and, 
as  my  personal  ambition  had  lost  its  stimulant,  I turned  with 
pleasure  to  those  of  whose  fate  and  fortunes  I w^as,  in  some  sort, 
the  guardian.  There  may  be  many  a land  where  the  verdure 
blooms  more  in  fragrance  and  in  richness — where  the  clime 
breathes  softer,  and  a brighter  sky  lights  up  the  landscape;  but 
there  is  none — I have  traveled  through  many  a one — where  more 
touching  and  heart-bound  associations  are  blended  with  the 
features  of  the  soil  than  in  Ireland.  And  cold  must  be  the  spirit 
and  barren  the  affections  of  him  who  can  dwell  amid  its  mount- 
ains and  its  valleys,  it  tranquil  lakes,  its  wooded  fens,  wdthout 
feeling  their  humanizing  influence  upon  him.  Thus,  gradually, 
new  impressions  and  new  duties  succeeded;  and  ere  four 
months  elapsed,  the  quiet  monotony  of  m3"  daily  life  healed  upi 
the  wounds  of  my  suffering,  and  in  the  calm  current  of  my 
present  existence,  a sense  of  content,  if  not  of  happiness,  crept 
gently  over  me,  and  I ceased  to  long  for  the  clasli  of  arms  and 
the  loud  blast  of  the  trumpet. 

Unlike  all  my  former  habits,  I completely  abandoned  the 
sports  of  the  field.  He  who  had  participated  in  them  with  me 
was  no  longer  there;  and  the  very  sight  of  the  tackle  itself  sug- 
gested sad  and  depressing  thoughts. 

My  horses  I took  but  little  pleasure  in.  To  gratify  the  good 
and  kind  people  about,  I would  walk  through  the  stables,  and 
make  some  passing  remark,  as  if  to  show  some  interest;  but  I 


CHARLES  SMALLEY 


217 


felt  it  not.  No;  it  was  only  by  the  total  change  of  all  the  ordi- 
nary channels  of  my  ideas,  that  I could  bear  up;  and  now  my 
days  were  passed  in  the  fields,  either  listlessly  strolling  along, 
or  in  watching  the  laborers  as  they  worked.  Of  my  neighbors  I 
saw  nothing;  returning  their  cards  when^^they  called  upon  me, 
was  the  extent  of  our  intercourse;  and  I had  no  desire  for  any 
further.  As  Considine  had  left  me  to  visit  some  friends  in  the 
south,  I was  quite  alone;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  felt 
how  soothing  can  be  such  solitude.  In  each  happy  face — in 
every  grateful  look  around  me — I felt  that  I was  fulfilling  my 
uncle’s  last  behest;  and  the  sense  of  duty,  so  strong  when  it  falls 
upon  the  heart  accompanied  by  the  sense  of  power,  made  my 
days  pass  rapidly  away. 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  autumn  when  I one  morning  re- 
ceived a letter  from  London,  informing  me  that  my  troop  had 
been  sold,  and  the  purchase-money — about  fourth  ousand  pounds 
— lodged  to  my  credit  at  my  banker’s. 

As  Mr.  Blake  had  merely  answered  my  former  note  by  a civil 
message  that  the  matter  in  question  was  by  no  means  pressing, 
I lost  not  a moment,  when  this  news  reached  me,  to  dispatch 
Mike  toGurt-na-morra,  with  a few  lines,  expressing  my  anxious 
desire  to  finish  the  transaction,  and  begging  of  Mr.  Blake  to 
appoint  a day  for  the  purpose. 

To  this  application  Mr.  Blake’s  reply  was,  that  he  would  do 
himself  the  honor  of  waiting  upon  me  the  following  day,  when 
the  arrangements  I desired  could  be  agreed  upon.  Now  this 
was  exactly  what  I wished,  if  possible,  to  avoid.  Of  all  my 
neighbors,  he  was  the  one  I predetermined  to  have  no  inter- 
course with;  I had  not  forgotten  my  last  evening  at  his  house, 
nor  had  I forgiven  his  conduct  to  my  uncle.  However,  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  submission;  the  interview  need  not  be  a 
long  one,  and  it  should  be  a last  one.  Thus  resolving,  I waited 
in  patience  for  the  morrow. 

I was  seated  at  my  breakfast  the  next  morning,  conning  be- 
tween whiles  the  columns  of  the  last  paper,  and  feeding  my 
spaniel,  who  sat  upon  a large  chair  beside  me,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  the  servant  announced  “Mr.  Blake;”  and  the  in- 
stant after  that  gentleman  bustled  in,  holding  out  both  his 
hands  with  all  evidences  of  most  friendly  warmth,  and  calling 
out: 

“ Charley  O’Malley,  my  lad!  I’m  delighted  to  see  you  at  last !” 

Now,  although  the  distance  from  the  door  to  the  table  at 
which  I sat  was  not  many  paces,  yet  was  it  quite  sufficient  to 
chill  down  all  my  respectable  relative’s  ardor  before  he  ap- 
proached; his  rapid  pace  became  gradually  a shuffle,  a shde, 
and  finally  a dead  stop;  his  extended  arms  were  reduced  to  one 
hand,  barely  advanced  beyond  his  waistcoat;  his  voice,  losing 
the  easy  confidence  of  its  former  tone,  got  husky  and  dry,  and 
broke  into  a cough;  and  all  these  changes  were  indebted  to  the 
mere  fact  of  my  reception  of  him  consisting  in  a cold  and  dis- 
tant bow,  as  I told  the  servant  to  place  a chair  and  leave  the 
room. 

Without  any  preliminary  whatever,  I opened  the  subject  of 


218 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


our  negotiation,  expressed  my  regret  that  it  should  have  waited 
so  long,  and  my  desire  to  complete  it. 

AVhether  it  was  that  the  firm  and  resolute  tone  I assumed  had 
its  effect  at  once,  or  that,  disappointed  at  the  mode  in  which  I 
received  his  advances,  he  wished  to  conclude  our  interview  as 
soon  as  need  be,  I know  not;  but  he  speedily  withdrew  from  a 
capacious  pocket  a document  in  parchment,  which,  having 
spread  at  large  upon  tlie  table,  and  having  leisurely  put  on  his 
spectacles,  he  began  to  hum  over  its  contents  to  himself  in  an 
undertone. 

Yes,  sir,  here  it  is,*’  said  he.  ‘‘  ‘ Deed  of  conveyance  between 
Godfrey  O’Malley,  of  O’Malley  Castle,  Esq.,  on  the  one  part’ 
— perhaps  you’d  like  your  solicitor  to  examine  it — ‘ and  Blake, 
of  Gurt  ’ — because  there  is  no  hurry.  Captain  O’Malley — ‘ on  the 
other.’  In  fact,  after  all,  it  is  a mere  matter  of  form  between 
relatives,”  said  he,  as  I declined  the  intervention  of  a lawyer. 
“ I'm  not  in  want  of  the  money — ‘ all  the  lands  and  tenements 
adjoining,  in  trust,  for  the  payment  of  the  said  three  thou- 
sand  ’ Thank  God,  Captain,  the  sum  is  a trifle  that  does  not 

inconvenience  me;  the  boys  are  provided  for;  and  the  girls — 
the  pickpockets,  as  I call  them,  ha,  ha,  ha! — not  ill  off  either — 
‘ with  rights  of  turbary  on  the  said  premises  ’ — who  are  most 
anxious  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you.  Indeed,  I could 
scarcely  keep  Jane  from  going  over  to-day.  ‘Sure  he’s  my 
cousin,’  says  she;  ‘and  what  harm  would  it  be  if  I went  to  see 
him  ?’  Wild,  good-natured  girls,  Captain!  And  your  old  friend 
Matthew — you  haven’t  forgot  Matthew  ? — has  been  keeping  three 
coveys  of  partridge  for  you  this  fortnight.  ‘ Charley,’  says  he — 
they  call  you  Charley  still,  Captain — ‘shall  have  them,  and  no 
one  else.’  And  poor  Alley — she  was  a child  when  you  were 
here — Alley  is  working  a sash  for  you.  But  I’m  forgetting — I 
know  you  have  so  much  business  on  your  hands ” 

“Pray,  Mr.  Blake,  be  seated.  I know  nothing  of  more  im- 
portance than  the  matter  before  us.  If  you  will  permit  me  to 
give  you  a check  for  this  money.  The  papers,  I’m  sure,  are  per- 
fectly correct.” 

“ If  I only  thought  I did  not  inconvenience  you ” 

“Nothing  of  the  kind,  I assure  you.  Shall  I say  at  sight,  or 
in  ten  days  hence?” 

“ Whenever  you  please,  Captain.  But  it’s  sorry  l am  to  come 
troubling  you  about  such  things,  when  I know  you’re  thinking 
of  other  matters.  And,  as  I said  before,  the  money  does  not 
signify  to  me;  the  times,  thank  God,  are  good,  and  I’ve  never 
been  very  improvident.” 

“ I think  you’ll  find  that  correct.” 

“Oh,  to  be  sure  it  is!  Well,  well;  I’m  going  away  without 
paying  half  what  I intended ” 

“Pray  do  not  hurry  yourself.  I have  not  asked,  have  you 
breakfasted,  for  I remember  Galway  habits  too  well  for  that. 
But  if  I might  offer  you  a glass  of  sherry  and  water  after  your 
ride  ?” 

“ Will  you  think  me  a beast  if  I say  yes.  Captain?  Time  was 
when  I didn’t  care  for  a canter  of  ten  or  fifteen  miles. in  the 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


m 

morning  no  more  than  yourself;  and  that’s  no  small  boast,  God 
forgive  me;  but  I never  see  that  clover  field  where  you  pounded 
the  Englishman,  without  swearing  there  never  was  a leap  made 

before  or  since Is  this  Mickey,  Captain  ? Faith,  and  it’s  a 

fine,  brown,  hearty -looking  chap  you’ve  grown,  Mickey.  That’s 
mighty  pleasant  sherry!  but  where  would  there  be  good  wine  if 
it  wasn’t  here  ? Oh!  I remember  now  what  it  was  1 wanted. 
Peter — my  son  Peter,  a slip  of  a boy — he’s  only  sixteen — well, 
d’  you  see,  he’s  downright  derangeda  bout  the  army;  he  used  to  see 
your  name  in  the  paper  every  day,  and  that  terrible  business  at 
— what’s  the  name  of  the  place  ? — where  you  rode  on  the  chap’s 
back  up  the  breach.” 

“Ciudad  Rodrigo,”  said  I,  scarcely  able  to  repress  a laugh. 

“ Well,  sir.  since  that  he’ll  hear  of  nothing  but  going  into  the 
army;  ay,  and  into  the  dragoons,  too.  Now,  Captain,  isn’t  it 
mighty  expensive  in  the  dragoons  ?” 

“ Why,  no,  not  particularly  so — at  least,  in  the  regiment  I 
served  with.” 

“ I promised  him  I’d  ask  you;  the  boy’s  mad.  that’s  the  fact.  I 
wish,  Captain,  you’d  just  reason  with  him  a little;  he’ll  mind 
what  you  say,  there’s  no  fear  of  that;  and  you  see,  though  I’d 
like  to  do  what’s  fair.  I’m  not  going  to  cut  off  the  girls  for  the 
sake  of  the  boys;  with  the  blessings  of  Providence,  they’ll  never 
be  able  to  reproach  me  for  that.  What  I say  is  this:  treat  me 
well,  and  I’ll  try  to  treat  you  the  same.  Marry  the  man  my 
choice  would  pick  out  for  you,  and  it's  not  a matter  of  a thousand 
or  two  I’ll  care  for.  There  was  Bodkin — you  remember  him  ?” 
said  he, with  a grin;  “ he  proposed  for  Mar,  but  since  the  quarrel 
with  you,  she  could  never  bear  the  sight  of  him,  and  Alley 
wouldn’t  come  down  to  dinner,  if  he  was  in  the  house.  Alley’s 
greatly  altered.  I wish  you  heard  her  sing  ‘ I’d  mourn  the  hopes 
that  leave  me;’  queer  girl  she  is;  she  was  little  more  than  a child 
when  you  were  here  and  she  remembers  you  just  as  if  it  was 
yesterday.” 

While  Mr.  Blake  ran  on  at  this  rate;  now  dilating  upon  my 
own  manifold  virtues  and  accomplishments;  now  expatiating 
upon  the  more  congenial  theme — the  fascinations  of  his  fair 
daughters,  and  the  various  merits  of  his  sons — I could  not  help 
feeling  how  changed  our  relative  position  was  since  our  last 
meeting;  the  tone  of  cool  and  vulgar  patronage  he  then  assumed 
toward  the  unformed  country  lad,  was  now  converted  into  an 
air  of  fawning  and  deferential  submission,  still  more  distasteful. 

Young  as  I was,  however,  I had  already  seen  a good  deal  of 
the  world;  my  soldiering  had  at  least  taught  me  something  of 
men,  and  I had  far  less  difficulty  in  deciphering  the  intentions 
and  objects  of  my  worthy  relative,  than  I should  have  had  in 
the  enigmatical  mazes  of  the  parchment  bond  of  wliich  he  was 
the  bearer.  After  all,  to  how  very  narrow  an  extent  in  life  are 
we  fashioned  by  our  own  estimate  of  ourselves.  My  changed 
condition  affected  me  but  little  until  I saw  how  it  affected  others; 
that  the  position  I occupied,  now  that  life  had  lost  the  general 
stimulus  of  ambition,  was  somewhat  strange;  and  that  flattery 
phould  pay  its  homage  to  the  mourning  coat  I wore,  which  it 


220 


CHARLES  aMALLEY 


I 

i 


would  have  refused  to  my  soldier's  garb.  My  bettered  fortunes 
shone  only  brightly  by  reflected  light;  for  in  my  own  heart  I 
was  sad,  spiritless,  and  oppressed. 

Feeling  somewhat  ashamed  of  the  coldness  with  which  I 
treated  a man  so  much  my  elder,  I gradually  assumed  toward 
Mr.  Blake  a manner  less  reserved;  he  quickly  availed  himself  of 
the  change,  and  launched  out  into  an  eloquent  expose  of  my  ad- 
vantages and  capabilities;  the  only  immediate  effect  of  which 
was,  to  convince  me  that  my  property  and  my  prospects  must  have 
been  pretty  accurately  conned  over  and  considered  by  that 
worthy  gentleman,  before  he  could  speak  of  the  one  or  the 
other  with  such  perfect  knowledge. 

“When  you  get  rid  of  these  little  incumbrances,  your  rent- 
roll  will  be  close  on  four  thousand  a year.  There’s  Basset,  sure, 
by  only  reducing  his  interest  from  ten  to  five  per  cent.,  will  give 
you  a clear  eight  hundred  per  annum;  let  him  refuse,  and  I’ll 
advance  the  money;  and,  beside,  look  at  Freney’s  farm;  there’s 
two  hundred  acres  let  for  one- third  of  tlie  value,  and  you  must 
look  to  these  things,  for,  you  see,  Captain,  we’ll  want  you  to  go 
into  parliament;  you  can’t  help  coming  forward  at  the  next 
election,  and  by  the  great  gun  of  Athlone,  we’ll  return  you.” 

Here  Mr.  Blake  swallowed  a full  bumper  of  sherry  and,  get- 
ting up  a little  false  enthusiasm  for  the  moment,  grasped  me  by 
both  hands  and  shook  me  violently;  this  done,  like  a skillful  gen- 
eral, who,  having  fired  the  last  shot  of  his  artillery,  takes  care  to 
secure  his  retreat,  he  retired  toward  the  door,  where  his  hat  and 
coat  were  lying. 

“ I’ve  a hundred  apologies  to  make  for  encroaching  upon  your 
time;  but,  upon  my  soul.  Captain,  you  are  so  agreeable,  and  the 

hours  have  passed  away  so  pleasantly May  I never,  if  it  is 

not  one  o’clock!  but  you  must  forgive  me.” 

My  sense  of  justice,  which  showed  me  that  the  agreeability 
had  been  all  on  Mr.  Blake’s  side,  prevented  me  from  acknowl- 
edging this  compliment  as  it  deserved;  so  I merely  bowed  stiffly, 
without  speaking.  By  this  time  he  had  succeeded  in  putting  on 
his  great-coat,  but  still  by  some  mischance  or  other  the  ^moment 
of  his  leave-taking  was  deferred;  one  time  he  buttoned  it  awry, 
and  had  to  undo  it  all  again;  then,  when  it  was  properly  ad- 
justed, he  discovered  that  his  pocket-handkerchief  was  not  avail- 
able, being  left  in  the  inner  coat  pocket;  to  this  succeeded  a doubt 
as  to  the  safety  of  the  check,  which  instituted  another  search, 
and  it  was  full  ten  minutes  before  he  was  completely  capari- 
soned and  ready  for  the  road. 

“Good -bye,  Captain;  good-bye,”  said  he,  warmly,  yet  warily, 
not  knowing  at  what  precise  temperature  the  metal  of  my  heart 
was  fusible. 

At  a mild  heat  I had  been  evidently  unsinged,  and  the  white 
heat  of  his  flattery  seemed  only  to  harden  me.  The  interview 
was  now  over,  and,  as  I thought  sufficient  had  been  done  to 
convince  my  friend  that  the  terms  of  distant  acquaintance  were 
to  be  the  limits  of  our  future  intercourse,  I assumed  a little  show 
of  friendliness,  and  shook  his  hand  warmly. 

“Good-bye,  Mr,  Blake;  pray  present  my  respectful  compli' 


CHABLES  aMALLEY. 


liients  to  your  friends.  Allow  me  to  ring  for  your  horse;  you  are 
not  going  to  have  a shower,  I hope.” 

“ No,  no,  Captain,  only  a passing  cloud,”  said  he,  warming  up 
perceptibly  under  the  influence  of  my  ad  vane  ^es,  “ nothing 
more.  Why,  what  is  it  Tm  forgetting  now!  Oh,  I have  it! 
May  be  I’m  too  bold;  but  sure  an  old  friend  and  relation  may 
take  a liberty  sometimes.  It  was  just  a little  request  as  I was 
leaving  the  house.”  He  stopped  here,  as  if  to  take  soundings, 
and  perceiving  no  change  in  my  countenance,  continued:  “It 
was  just  to  beg  that,  in  a kind  and  friendly  way,  you’d  come 
over  and  eat  your  dinner  with  us  on  Sunday — nobody  but  the 
family,  not  a soul — Mrs.  Blake  and  the  girls — a boiled  leg  of 
mutton — Matthew — a fresh  trout,  if  we  can  catch  one— plain 
and  homely — but  a hearty  welcome,  and  a bottle  of  old  claret, 
may  be,  too — ah!  ah!  ah!” 

Before  the  cadence  of  Mr.  Blake’s  laugh  had  died  away  I po- 
litely, but  resolutely,  declined  the  proffered  invitation,  and  by 
way  of  setting  the  question  at  rest  forever,  gave  him  to  un- 
derstand that  from  impaired  health  and  other  causes,  I had  re- 
solved upon  strictly  conflning  myself  to  the  limits  of  my  own 
house  and  grounds,  at  least  for  the  present. 

Mr.  Blake  then  saluted  me  for  the  last  time,  and  left  the 
room.  As  he  mounted  his  hackney  I could  not  help  overhear- 
ing an  abortive  effort  he  made  to  draw  Mike  into  something 
like  conversation;  but  it  proved  an  utter  failure,  and  it  was  evi- 
dent he  deemed  the  man  as  incorrigible  as  the  master. 

“A  very  flne young  man  the  Captain  is — remarkable!  and  it's 
proud  I am  to  have  him  for  a nephew.” 

So  saying,  he  cantered  down  the  avenue,  while  Mickey,  as  he 
looked  after  him,  muttered,  between  his  teeth:  “And  faix,  it’s 
prouder  you’d  be  av  he  was  your  son-in-law!” 

Mike’s  soliloquy  seemed  to  show  me,  in  a n^w  light,  the  mean- 
ing of  my  relative’s  manner.  It  was  for  the  first  time  in  my  life 
that  such  a thought  had  occurred  to  me,  and  it  was  not  without 
a sense  of  shame  that  I now  admitted  it. 

If  there  be  something  which  elevates  and  exalts  us  in  our  es- 
teem, tinging  our  hearts  with  heroism  and  our  souls  with  pride, 
in  the  love  and  attachment  of  some  fair  and  beautiful  girl,  there 
is  something  equally  humiliating  in  being  the  object  of  cold  and 
speculative  calculation  to  a match-making  family.  Your  char- 
acter studied — your  pursuits  watched — your  tastes  conned  over 
— your  very  temperament  inquired  into — surrounded  by  snares, 
environed  by  practiced  attentions — one  eye  fixed  upon  the  regis- 
tered testament  of  your  relative,  the  other  riveted  upon  your  own 
caprices,  and  then  those  thousand  little  cares  and  kindnesses 
which  come  so  pleasurably  upon  the  heart,  when  the  offspring 
of  true  affection,  perverted  as  they  are  by  base  views  and  sordid 
interest,  are  so  many  shocks  to  the  feeling  and  understanding. 
Like  the  eastern  sirocco,  which  seems  to  breathe  of  freshness 
and  of  health,  and  yet  bears  but  pestilence  and  death  upon  ite 
breezes,  so  these  calculated  and  well-  considered  traits  of  affec' 
tion  only  rendered  me  dallous,  and  hardened  my  heart,  whicii 
had  responded  warmly,  openly,  and  abundantly  to  the  true  out- 


m 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


pourings  of  affection.  At  how  many  a previously  happy  hearth 
nas  the  seed  of  this  fatal  passion  planted  its  discord!  how  many  a 
fair  and  lovely  girl,  with  beauty  and  attractions  sufficient 
to  win  all  that  her  heart  could  wish  of  fondness  and  devotion, 
has,  by  this  pernicious  passion,  become  a cold,  heartless,  worldly 
coquette,  weighing  men’s  characters  by  the  adventitious  circum- 
stances of  their  birth  and  fortune,  and  scrutinizing  the  eligibility 
of  a match  with  the  practiced  acumen  with  which  a notary  in- 
vestigates the  solvency  of  a creditor.  How  do  the  traits  of 
beauty,  gesture,  voice,  and  manner  become  converted  into  the 
commonplace  and  distasteful  trickery  of  the  world!  The  very 
hospitality  of  the  house  becomes  suspected,  their  friendship  is 
but  fictitious;  those  rare  and  goodly  gifts  of  fondness  and  sis- 
terly affection  which  grow  up  in  happier  circumstances,  are  here 
but  rivalry,  envy,  and  ill-conceived  hatred;  the  very  accom- 
plishments which  cultivate  and  adorn  life,  that  light  but  grace- 
ful prize  which  girds  the  temple  of  homely  happiness,  are  here 
but  the  meditated  and  w^ell-considered  occasions  of  display;  all 
the  bright  features  of  womanhood,  all  the  freshness  of  youth, 
and  all  its  fascinations,  are  but  like  those  richly  colored  and 
beautiful  fruits,  seductive  to  the  eye,  and  fair  to  look  upon,  but 
which  within  contain  nothing  but  a core  of  rottenness  and 
decays 

No,  no;  unblessed  by  all  which  makes  a hearth  a home,  I may 
travel  on  my  weary  way  through  life;  but  such  a one  as  this  I 
will  not  make  the  partner  of  my  sorrows  and  my  joys,  como 
what  will  of  it! 


CHAPTER  CXI. 

A SURPRISE. 

From  the  hour  of  Mr.  Blake’s  departure,  my  life  was  no  longer 
molested.  My  declaration,  which  had  evidently,  under  his  aus- 
pices, been  made  the  subject  of  conversation  through  the  coun  - 
try, was  at  least  so  far  successful,  as  it  permitted  me  to  spend 
m'y  lime  in  the  way  I liked  best,  and  without  the  necessity  of 
maintaining  the  show  of  intercourse,  when  in  reality  I kept  up 
none,  with  the  neighborhood.  While  thus,  therefore,  my  life 
passed  on  equably  and  tranquilly,  many  months  glided  over,  and 
I found  myself  a year  at  home,  without  it  appearing  more  than 
a few  weeks.  Nothing  8i\ems  so  short  in  retrospect  as  monotony; 
the  number,  the  variety,  the  interest  of  the  events  which  occupy 
us,  making  our  hours  pass  glibly  and  flowingly.  will  still  suggest 
to  the  mind  the  impressions  of  a longer  period  than  when  the 
daily  routine  of  our  occupations  assumes  a character  of  con- 
tinued uniformity.  It  seems  to  be  the  amende  made  by  hours  of 
weariness  and  tedium  that,  in  looking  back  upon  them,  they  ap- 
pear to  have  passed  rapidly  over.  Not  that  my  life,  at  the  pe- 
riod I speak  of,  was  devoid  of  interest;  on  the  contrary,  devot- 
ing myself  with  zeal  and  earnestness  to  the  new  duties  of  my 
station,  I made  myself  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  condi- 
tion of  my  property,  the  interests  of  my  tenantry,  their  pros- 
i0ects,  their  hopes,  their  objects,  Investigating  them  as  only  htj 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


can  who  is  the  owner  of  the  soil,  I endeavored  to  remedy  the 
ancient  vices  of  the  land — the  habits  of  careless,  reckless  waste» 
of  indifference  for  the  morrow;  and,  by  instilling  a feature  of 
prudent  foresight  into  that  boundless  confidence  in  the  future 
upon  which  every  Irishman  of  every  rank  lives  and  trusts,  I 
succeeded  at  last  in  so  far  ameliorating  their  situation,  that  a 
walk  through  my  property,  instead  of  presenting — as  it  first  did 
— a crowd  of  eager  and  anxious  supplicants,  entreating  for 
abatements  in  rent,  succor  for  their  sick,  and  sometimes  even 
food  itself,  showed  me  now  a happy  and  industrious  people,  con- 
fident in  themselves,  and  firmly  relying  on  their  own  resources. 

Another  spring  was  now  opening,  and  a feeling  of  calm  and 
tranquil  happiness,  the  result  of  ray  successful  management  of 
my  property,  made  my  days  pass  pleasantly  along.  I was  sitting 
at  a late  breakfast  in  my  little  library;  the  open  window  afforded 
a far  and  wide  prospect  of  the  country  blooming  in  all  the 
promise  of  the  season,  while  the  drops  of  the  passing  shower 
still  lingered  upon  the  grass,  and  were  sparkling  like  jewels 
under  the  bright  sunshine.  Masses  of  white  and  pillowy  cloud 
moved  swiftly  through  the  air,  coloring  the  broad  river  with 
many  a shadow  as  they  passed.  The  birds  sang  merrily;  the 
trees  shook  their  leaves  in  concert;  and  there  was  that  sense  of 
movement  in  everything  on  earth  and  in  sky  which  gives  to  spring, 
its  character  of  lightness  and  exhilaration.  The  youth  of  the 
year,  like  the  youth  of  our  own  existence,  is  beautiful  in  the 
restless  activity  which  marks  it.  The  tender  flower,  that  seems 
to  open  as  we  look;  the  grass,  that  springs  before  our  eyes;  all 
speak  of  promise.  The  changing  phases  of  the  sky,  like  the 
smiles  and  tears  of  infancy,  excite  without  weariness,  and, 
while  they  engage  our  sympathies,  they  fatigue  not  our  com- 
passion. 

Partly  lost  in  thought,  as  I looked  upon  the  fair  and  varied 
scene  before  me,  now  turning  to  the  pages  of  the  book  upon  the 
breakfast-table,  the  hours  of  the  morning  passed  quickly  over, 
and  it  was  already  beyond  noon.  I was  startled  from  my  rev- 
erie by  sounds  which  I could  scarcely  trust  my  ears  to  believe 
real.  I listened  again,  and  thought  I could  detect  them  distinct- 
ly. It  seemed  as  though  some  one  were  rapidly  running  over 
the  keys  of  a pianoforte,  essaying  with  the  voice  to  follow  the 
notes,  and  sometimes  striking  two  or  three  bold  and  successive 
chords;  a merry  laugh  would  follow  and  drown  all  other  sounds. 
“What  can  it  be?”  thought  I.  “ There  is,  to  be  sure,  a piano- 
forte in  the  large  drawing-room;  but  then,  who  would  venture 
upon  such  liberty  as  this  ? besides,  who  is  capable  of  it  ? There 
— it  can  be  no  inexperienced  performer  gave  that  shake; 
my  worthy  housekeeper  never  accomplished  that.”  So  say- 
ing, I jumped  from  the  breakfast-table,  and  set  off  in 
the  direction  of  the  sound.  A small  drawing-room  and 
the  billiard-room  lay  between  me  and  the  large  drawing-room; 
and,  as  I traversed  then),  the  music  grew  gradually  louder. 
Conjecturing  that,  whoever  it  might  be,  the  performer  would 
cease  on  my  entrance,  I listened  for  a few  minutes  before  open- 
ing the  door.  Nothing  could  be  more  singular — nothing  more 


m 


CHARLES  aWALLET. 


strange — than  the  effect  of  those  unaccustomed  sounds  in  that 
silent  and  deserted  place.  The  character  of  the  music,  too, 
contributed  not  a little  to  this;  rapidly  passing  from  grave  to 
gay — from  the  melting  softness  of  some  plaintive  air  to  the 
reckless  hurry  and  confusion  of  an  Irish  jig — the  player  seemed, 
as  it  were,  to  run  wild  through  all  the  floating  fancies  of  his 
memory;  now  breaking  suddenly  off  in  the  saddest  cadence  of  a 
song,  the  notes  would  change  into  some  quaint,  old-fashioned 
crone,  in  which  the  singer  seemed  so  much  at  home,  and  gave  the 
queer  drollery  of  the  words  that  expression  of  archness  so  emi- 
nently the  character  of  certain  Irish  airs.  “ But  what  the  deuce 
is  this  ?”  said  I,  as,  rattling  over  the  keys  with  a flowing  but  brill- 
iant Anger,  she — for  it  was  unquestionably  a woman — with  a 
clear  and  sweet  voice  broken  by  laughter,  began  to  sing  the 
words  of  Mr.  Bodkin’s  song,  “ The  Man  for  Galway  ;”  when  she 
had  finished  the  last  verse,  her  hand  strayed,  as  it  were,  care- 
lessly over  the  instrument,  while  she  herself  gave  way  to  a free 
burst  of  merriment;  and  then,  suddenly  resuming  the  air,  she 
chanted  forth  the  following  words  with  a spirit  and  effect  I can 
convey  no  idea  of: 

“ To  live  at  home, 

. And  never  roam: 

To  pass  his  days  in  sighing; 

To  wear  sad  looks, 

K€iad  stupid  bcoivS, 

And  look  half  dead  or  dying; 

Not  show  his  face, 

Nor  join  the  chase, 

But  dwell  a hermit  alway; 

Oh!  Charley  dear! 

To  me  ’tis  clear, 

You’re  not  the  man  for  Galway!” 

' You’re  not  the  man  for  Galway ! ’ ” repeated  she  once  more, 
while  she  closed  the  piano  with  a bang. 

“And  why  not,  my  dear? — why  not  the  man  for  Galway?” 
said  I.  as,  bursting  open  the  door,  I sprang  into  the  room. 

Oh  ! it’s  you,  is  it?  at  last!  So  I’vo  unearthed  you,  have  I?” 

With  these  words  she  burst  into  an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter; 
leaving  me,  w^ho  intended  being  the  party  giving  the  surprise, 
amazed,  confused,  and  speechless,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

That  the  reader  may  sympathize  a little  in  my  distress,  let  me 
present  him  with  the  tableau  before  me.  Seated  upon  the  piano- 
stool  was  a young  lady,  of  almost  eighteen  years;  her  face,  had 
it  not  been  for  its  expression  of  exuberant  drollery  and  malicious 
fun,  would  have  been  downright  beautiful;  her  eyes,  of  the 
deepest  blue,  and  shaded  by  long  lashes,  instead  of  indulging 
the  character  of  pensive  and  thoughtful  beauty  for  which  nature 
destined  them,  sparkled  with  a most  animated  brightness;  her 
nose,  which,  rather  short,  was  still  beautifully  proportioned, 
gave,  with  her  well-curled  upper  lip,  a look  of  sauciness  to  the 
features  quite  bewitching;  her  hair — that  brilliant  auburn  we 
see  in  a Carlo  Bold — fell  in  wild  and  massive  curls  upon  her 
shoulders.  Her  costume  was  a dark-green  riding  habit,  not  of 
the  newest  in  its  fashion,  and  displaying  more  than  one  rent  in 


CHAHLES  aUALLEY. 


2^5 


its  careless  folds;  her  hat,  whip,  and  gloves  lay  on  the  floor  beside 
her;  and  her  whole  attitude  and  bearing  indicated  the  most  per- 
fect ease  and  carelessness. 

“So  you  are  caught — taken  alive  I”  said  she,  as  she  pressed 
her  hands  upon  her  sides  in  a fresh  burst  of  laughter. 

“By  Jove  I this  is  a surprise  indeed!’*  said  I;  “and  pray  into 
whose  fair  hands  have  I fallen  a captive  ?”  recovering  myself  a 
little,  and  resuming  a half  air  of  gallantry. 

“ So  you  don’t  know  me!  Don’t  you 

“ Upon  my  life  I do  not.'’ 

How  good!  Why,  I’m  Baby  Blake.” 

“ Baby  Blake!”  said  I;  tliinking  that  a rather  strange  appel- 
lation for  one  whose  well-developed  proportions  betokened 
• nothing  of  infancy.  “ Baby  Blake!” 

“ To  be  sure;  your  cousin  Baby.” 

“ Indeed!”  said  I springing  forward.  “Let  me  embrace  my 
relative.” 

Accepting  my  proffered  salutation  with  the  most  exemplary 
coolness,  she  said : 

“ Get  a chair  now,  and  let’s  have  a talk  together.” 

“ Why  the  devil  do  they  call  you  Baby?”  said  I,  still  puzzled 
by  this  palpable  misnomer. 

“ Because  I am  the  youngest,  and  I was  always  the  baby,” 
replied  she,  adjusting  her  ringlets  with  a most  I’ural  coquetry. 
“Now  tell  me  something:  Why  do  you  live  shut  up  here  like  a 
madman,  and  not  come  near  us  at  Gurt  na-morra?” 

“Oh!  that’s  a long  story,  Baby.  But,  since  we  are  asking 
questions — how  did  you  get  in  here  ?” 

“Just  through  the  window,  my  dear;  and  I’ve  torn  my  habit, 
as  you  see.” 

So  saying,  she  exhibited  a rent  of  about  two  feet  long,  thrust- 
ing through  it  a very  pretty  foot  and  ankle  at  the  same  time. 

“ As  my  inhospitable  customs  have  cost  you  a habit,  you  must 
let  me  make  you  a present  of  one.” 

“No!  will  you  though?  that’s  a good  fellow.  Lord,  I told 
them  I knew  you  weren’t  a miser;  that  you  were  only  odd; 
that’s  all.” 

“ And  how  did  you  come  over.  Baby  ?”  ^ 

“Just  cantered  over  with  little  Paddy  Byrne.  I made  him  i 
take  all  the  walls  and  ditches  we  met,  and  they’re  scraping  the 
mud  off  him  ever  since.  I’m  glad  I make  you  laugh,  Charley; 
they  say  you  are  so  sad.  Dear  me!  how  thirsty  I am!  have  you 
any  beer  ?” 

“To  be  sure.  Baby.  But  wouldn’t  you  like  some  luncheon  ?” 

“ Of  all  things.  Well,  this  is  fun!”  said  she,  as,  taking  my 
arm,  I led  her  from  the  drawing-room.  “ They  don’t  know 
where  I’m  gone — ^not  one  of  them;  and  I’ve  a great  mind  not  to 
tell  them,  if  you  wouldn’t  blab.” 

“Wenld  it  be  auite  proper  ?” 

“Proper!”  criea  she,  imitating  my  voice;  “I  like  that!  as  if 
I was  going  to  run  away  with  you.  Dear  me!  what  a pretty 
house!  and  what  nice  pictures!  Who  is  that  old  fellow  up  there 
in  the  armor  ?” 


m 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


•‘That’s  Sir  Hildebrand  O’Malley,”  said  I,  with  some  pride,  in 
recognizing  an  ancestor  of  the  thirteenth  century. 

“ And  the  other  old  fright  with  the  wig,  and  bis  hands  stuck 
in  his  pockets  ?” 

“My  grandfather,  Baby.” 

“ LordI  how  ugly  he  is?  Why,  Charley,  he  hasn’t  a look  of 
you;  one  would  think,  too,  he  was  angry  at  us.  Ay,  old  gentle- 
man! you  don’t  like  to  see  me  leaning  on  cousin  Charley’s  arm. 
That  must  be  the  luncheon,  I’m  sure;  I hear  knives  and  forks 
rattling  there.” 

The  old  butler’s  astonishment  was  not  inferior  to  my  own  a 
few  minutes  before,  when  I entered  the  dining-room  with  my 
fair  cousin  upon  my  arm.  As  I drew  the  chair  toward  the  table, 
a thought  struck  me,  that  possibly  it  might  only  be  a due  atten- 
tention  to  my  fair  guest,  if  I invited  the  housekeeper,  Mrs. 
Magra,  to  favor  us  with  her  presence;  and  accordingly,  in  an 
under-tone,  so  as  not  to  be  overheard  by  old  Simon,  I said: 

“Perhaps,  Baby,  you’d  like  to  have  Mrs.  Magra  to  keep  us 
company!” 

“ Who  is  she?”  was  the  brief  answer. 

“The  housekeeper;  a very  respectable  old  matron.” 

“ Is  she  funny?” 

“ Funny!  Not  a bit.” 

“ Oh,  then,  never  mind  her.  What  made  you  think  of  her?” 

“What  I thought — perhaps  you’d  think — that  is,  people  might 
say — in  fact,  I was  doing  a little  bit  proper  on  your  account.” 

“ Oh!  that  was  it,  was  it?  Thank  you  for  nothing;  my  dear, 
Baby  Blake  can  take  care  of  herself.  And  now  just  help  me 
to  that  wing  there.  Do  you  know.  Cousin  Charley,  I think 
you’re  an  old  quiz,  and  not  half  as  good  a fellow  as  you  used 
to  be.” 

“Come,  come,  Baby,  don’t  be  in  such  a hurry  to  pronounce 
upon  me.  Let  us  take  a glass  of  wine.  Fill  Miss  Blake’s  glass, 
Simon.” 

“Well,  you  may  be  better  when  one  comes  to  know  you.  I 
detest  sherry;  no,  "never  mind,  I’ll  take  it,  as  it's  there.  Charley, 
I’ll  not  compliment  your  ham;  they  don’t  know  how  to  save 
them  here.  I’ll  give  you  such  a recipe  when  you  come  over  to 
see  us.  But  will  you  come  ? that’s  the  question.” 

“How  can  you  ask  me!  Don’t  you  think  I’ll  return  your 
visit?” 

“ Ohr  hang  your  ceremony.  Come  and  see  us,  like  a good- 
natured  fellow,  that  knew  us  since  we  played  together,  and 
quarreled  over  our  toys  on  the  grass.  Is  that  your  sword  up 
there?  Did  you  hear  that  noise?  that  was  thunder;  there  it 
comes.  Look  at  that!” 

As  she  spoke,  a darkness  like  night  overspread  the  landscape; 
the  waves  of  the  river  became  greatly  agitated,  and  the  rain  de- 
scending in  torrents,  beat  with  tremendous  force  against  the 
windows;  clap  after  clap  of  thunder  followed;  the  lightning 
tiasned  fearfully  through  the  gloom,  and  the  wind,  growing 
every  moment  stronger,  drove  the  ^'ain  with  redoubled  violence 
against  the  glass.  For  awhile  we  amused  ourselves  with  watch- 


CEAELE&  aMALLEY. 


ing  the  effects  of  the  storm  without;  the  poor  laborers  flying 
from  their  work;  the  dripping  figures  seeking  shelter  beneath  the 
trees;  the  barks,  the  very  loaded  carts  themselves,  all  interested 
Miss  Baby,  whose  eye  roved  from  the  shore  to  the  Shannon, 
recognizing,  with  a practiced  eye,  every  house  upon  its  banks, 
and  every  bark  that  rocked  and  pitched  beneath  the  gale. 

‘‘  Well,  this  is  pleasant  to  look  out  at,”  said  she  at  length,  and 
after  the  storm  had  lasted  above  an  hour,  without  evincing  any 
show  of  abatement;  “ but  what’s  to  become  of  me  ?” 

“Oh,  never  fear;  one  thing’s  quite  certain,  you  cannot  leave 
us  in  such  weather;  the  river  is  certainly  impassable  by  this 
time,  and  the  ford  and  long  round  by  the  road  is  out  of  the 
question;  it  is  fully  twelve  miles.  1 have  it.  Baby;  you,  as  I’ve 
said  before,  can’t  leave  this,  but  I can.  Now  I’ll  go  over  to 
Gurt-na-morra,  and  return  in  the  morning  to  bring  you  back;  it 
will  be  fine  by  that  time.” 

“ Well,  I like  your  notion;  you’ll  leave  me  all  alone  here  to 
drink  tea,  I suppose,  with  your  friend  Mrs.  Magra;  a pleasant 
evening  I’d  have  of  it;  not  a bit ” 

“ Well,  Baby,  don’t  be  cross;  I only  meant  this  arrangement 
really  for  your  sake;  I needn’t  tell  you  how  very  much  I’d  prefer 
doing  the  honors  of  my  poor  house  in  person.” 

“Oh,  I see  what  you  mean — more  proper.  Well,  w’ell.  I’m  a 
great  deal  to  blame;  but  look,  I think  it’s  growing  lighter.” 

“ No,  far  from  it;  it’s  only  that  gray  mass  along  the  horizon 
that  always  bodes  continual  rain.” 

As  the  prospect  without  had  little  cheering  to  look  upon  we 
sat  down  beside  the  fire,  and  chatted  away,  forgetting  very  soon, 
in  a hundred  mutual  recollections  and  inquiries,  the  rain  and 
the  wind,  the  thunder  and  the  hurricane.  Now  and  then,  as 
some  louder  crash  would  resound  above  our  heads  for  a moment, 
we  would  turn  to  the  window,  and  comment  upon  the  dreadful 
weather;  but  the  next,  we  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  and  were 
deep  in  our  confabulations. 

As  for  my  fair  cousin,  who  at  first  was  full  of  contrivances 
to  pass  the  time;  such  as  the  piano;  a game  of  backgammon; 
ciiicken  hazard;  battledore;  she  became  mightily  interested  in 
some  of  my  soldiering  adventures.  It  was  six  o’clock  ere  we 
again  thought  that  some  final  measure  must  be  adopted  for  re- 
storing Baby  to  her  friends,  or,  at  least,  guarding  the  conse- 
quences her  simple  and  guileless  nature  might  have  involved 
her  in. 

Mike  was  called  into  the  conference,  and,  at  his  suggestion,  it 
was  decided  that  we  should  have  out  the  phaeton,  and  that  I 
should  myself  drive  Miss  Blake  home;  a plan  which  offered  no 
other  difficulties  than  this  one,  namely,  that  of  above  thirty  hprses 
in  my  stables,  I had  not  a single  pair  which  had  ever  been  har- 
ness^. 

This,  so  far  from  proving  the  obstacle  I deemed  it,  seemed,  on 
the  contrary,  to  overwhelm  Baby  with  delight. 

“Let’s  have  them.  Come,  Charley;  this  will  be  rare  fun;  we 
couldn’t  team  four,  could  we  ?” 

if  you  like  it,  my  dear  coz.  Who’s  to  hold  them? 


228 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


they’re  young  thorough-breds;  most  of  them  never  backed; 
some  not  bitted.  In  fact,  I know  nothing  of  my  stable.  I say, 
Mike,  is  there  anything  fit  to  take  out  ?” 

“ Yes,  sir;  there’s  Miss  Widespin ; she’s  in  training,  to  be  sure, 
but  we  can’t  help  that;  and  the  brown  colt  they  call  ‘ Billy  the 
Bolter;’  they’re  the  likeliest  we  have;  without  your  honor  would 
take  the  two  chestnuts  we  took  up  last  week;  they’re  raal  devils 
to  go;  and,  if  the  tackle  will  hold  them,  they’ll  bring  you  to  Mr. 
Blake’s  door  in  forty  minutes.” 

“ I vote  for  the  chestnuts,”  said  Baby,  slapping  her  boot  with 
her  horsewhip. 

“I  move  an  amendment  in  favor  of  Miss  Widespin,”  said  I, 
doubtfully. 

“ He’ll  never  do  for  Galway,”  sang  Baby,  laying  her  whip  on 
my  shoulder  with  no  tender  hand;  “yet  you  used  to  cross  the 
country  in  good  style  when  you  were  here  before.” 

“ And  might  do  so  again.  Baby.” 

“Ah,  do;  that  vile  dragoon  seat,  with  your  long  stirrup,  and 
your  heel  dropped,  and  your  elbow  this  way,  and  your  head  that! 
How  could  you  ever  screw  your  horse  up  to  his  fence,  lifting 
him  along  as  you  came  up  through  the  heavy  ground,  and  with 
a stroke  of  your  hand  sending  him  pop  over  with  his  hind  legs 
well  under  him  ?”  Here  she  burst  into  a fit  of  laughter  at  my 
look  of  amazement,  as  with  voice,  gesture,  and  look,  she  actually 
realized  the  scene  she  described. 

By  the  time  that  I had  costumed  my  fair  friend  in  my  dragoon 
cloak  and  a foraging  cap,  with  a gold  band  around  it,  which  was 
the  extent  of  muffling  my  establishment  could  muster,  a distant 
noise  without  apprised  us  that  the  phaeton  was  approaching. 
Certainly,  the  mode  in  which  that  equipage  came  up  to  the  door 
might  have  inspired  sentiments  of  fear  in  any  heart  less  steeled 
against  danger  than  my  fair  cousin’s.  The  two  blood  chestnuts 
(for  it  was  those  Mike  harnessed,  having  a groom’s  dislike  to  take 
a racer  out  of  training)  were  surrounded  by  about  twenty  people; 
some  at  their  heads;  some  patting  them  on  the  flanks;  some 
spoking  the  wheels;  and  a few,  the  more  cautious  of  the  party, 
standing  at  a respectable  distance,  and  offering  advice.  The 
mode  of  progression  was  simply  a spring,  a plunge,  a rear,  a lunge, 
and  a kick,  and,  considering  that  it  was  the  first  time  they  ever 
performed  together  nothing  could  be  more  uniform  than  their 
display;  sometimes  the  pole  would  be  seen  to  point  straight  up- 
ward, like  a lightning  conductor,  while  the  infuriated  animals 
appeared  sparring  with  their  fore-legs  at  an  imaginary  enemy. 
Sometimes,  like  the  pictures  in  a school-book  on  mythology, 
they  would  seem  in  the  act  of  diving,  while  with  their  hind-legs 
they  dashed  the  splashboard  into  fragments  behind  them;  their 
eyes  flashing  fire,  their  nostrils  distended,  their  flanks  heaving, 
and  every  limb  trembling  with  passion  and  excitement. 

“ That’s  what  I call  a rare  turn-out,”  said  Baby,  who  enjoyed 
the  proceeding  amazingly. 

“Yes:  but  remember,”  said  I,  “we’re  not  to  have  all  thes'' 
running  footmen  the  whole  way.” 

“ I like  that  near-siderj  with  the  white  fetlock.” 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


229 


‘‘  You’re  right,  miss,”  said  Mike,  who  entered  at  the  moment, 
and  felt  quite  gratified  at  the  criticism.  “ You’re  right,  miss, 
it’s  himself  can  do  it.” 

‘‘Come,  Baby,  are  you  ready?” 

“All  right,  sir,”  said  she,  touching  her  cap  knowingly  with 
her  fore-finger. 

“Will  the  tackle  hold,  Mike ?”  said  I. 

“We’ll take  this  with  us,  at  any  rate,”  pointing,  as  he  spoke, 
to  a considerable  coil  of  rope,  a hammer,  and  a basket  of  nails, 
he  carried  on  his  arm.  “ It’s  the  break  harness  we  have,  and  it 
ought  to  be  strong  enough;  but  sure,  if  the  thunder  comes  on 
again,  they’d  smash  a chain  cable.” 

“ Well,  Charley,  keep  their  heads  straight;  for  when  they  go 
that  way  they  mean  going.” 

“Well,  Baby,  let’s  start;  but  pray  remember  one  thing.  If 
I’m  not  as  agreeable  on  the  journey  as  I ought  to  be;  if  I don’t 
say  as  many  pretty  things  to  my  pretty  coz,  it’s  because  these 
confounded  beasts  will  give  me  as  much  as  I can  do.” 

“Oh,  yes,  look  after  the  cattle,  and  take  another  time  for 

squeezing  my  hand I say,  Charley,  you’d  like  to  smoke, 

now,  wouldn’t  you  ? if  so,  don’t  mind  me.” 

“ A thousand  thanks  for  thinking  of  it;  but  I’ll  not  commit 
such  a trespass  on  good  breeding.” 

When  we  reached  the  door,  the  prospect  looked  dark  and  dis- 
mal enough;  the  rain  had  almost  ceased,  but  masses  of  black 
cloud  were  hurrying  across  the  sky,  and  the  low,  rumbling  noise 
of  a gathering  storm  crept  along  the  ground.  Our  panting 
equipage,  with  its  two  mounted  grooms  behind — for,  to  provide 
against  all  accident,  Mike  ordered  two  such  to  follow  us — stood 
in  waiting.  Miss  Blake’s  horse,  held  by  the  smallest  imaginable 
bit  of  boyhood,  bringing  up  the  rear. 

“ Look  at  Patty  Byrne’s  face,”  said  Baby,  directing  my  atten- 
tion to  the  little  individual  in  question. 

. Now,  small  as  the  aforesaid  face  was,  it  contrived,  within  its 
limits,  to  exhibit  an  expression  of  unqualified  fear.  1 had  no 
time,  however,  to  give  a second  look,  when  I jumped  into  the 
phaeton  and  seized  the  reins.  Mike  sprang  up  behind,  at  a 
look  from  me,  and,  without  speaking  awwd  the  stable  men  and 
helpers  flew  right  and  left.  The  chestnuts,  seeing  all  free  before 
them,  made  one  tremendous  plunge,  carrying  the  fore  carriage 
clear  off  the  ground,  and  straining  every  nut,  bolt,  screw,  and 
strap  about  us  with  the  effort. 

“ They’re  off  now,”  cried  Mickey. 

“ Yes,  they  are  off  now,”  said  Baby.  “ Keep  them  going.” 

Nothing  could  be  easier  to  follow  than  this  advice;  and,  in 
fact,  so  little  merit  had  I in  obeying  it,  that  I never  spoke  a 
word.  Down  the  avenue  we  went,  at  the  speed  of  lightning,  the 
stones  and  the  water  from  the  late  rain  flying  and  splashing 
about  us.  In  one  series  of  plunges,  agreeably  diversified  by  a 
strong  bang  upon  the  splash-board,  we  reached  the  gate.  Before 
I had  time  to  utter  a prayer  for  our  safety,  we  were  through, 
and  fairly  upon  the  high  road. 

“ Musha,  but  the  masther’s  mad,”  cried  the  old  dame  of  the 


280  CHARLES  aMALLEY. 

gate  lodge;  “ he  wasn’t  out  of  this  gate  for  a year  and  a half’ 
and  look  now ” 

The  rest  was  lost  in  the  clear,  ringing  laugh  of  Baby,  who 
clapped  her  hands  in  ecstasy  and  delight. 

“ What  a spanking  pair  they  are!  I suppose  you  wouldn’t  let 
me  get  my  hand  on  them,”  said  she,  making  a gesture  as  if  to 
take  the  reins. 

“ Heaven  forbid,  my  dear,”  said  I;  **  they’ve  nearly  pulled  my 
wrists  off  already.” 

Our  road,  like  many  in  the  west  of  Ireland,  lay  through  a 
level  tract  of  bog;  deep  ditches,  half  filled  with  water,  on  either 
side  of  us,  but  fortunately,  neither  hill  nor  valley  for  several 
miles. 

“There’s  the  mail,”  said  Baby,  pointing  to  a dark  speck  at  a 
long  distance  off. 

Ere  many  minutes  elapsed,  our  stretching  gallop,  for  such 
had  our  pace  sobered  into,  brought  us  up  with  it,  and  as  we 
flew  by,  at  top  speed.  Baby  jumped  to  her  feet,  and  turning  a 
waggish  look  at  our  beaten  rival,  burst  out  into  a fit  of  triumph^ 
ant  laughter. 

Mike  was  correct  as  to  time;  in  some  few  seconds  less  than 
forty  minutes  we  tumi^d  into  the  avenue  of  Gurt-na-morra.  Tear- 
ing along  like  the  very  moment  of  their  starting,  the  hot  and 
fiery  animals  galloped  up  the  approach,  and  at  length  came  to  a 
stop  in  a deep  plowed  field,  into  which,  fortunately  for  us,  Mr. 
Blake, animated  less  by  the  picturesque  than  the  profitable,  had 
converted  his  green  lawn.  This  check,  however,  was  less  owing 
to  my  agency  than  to  that  of  my  servants;  for,  dismounting  in 
haste,  they  flew  to  the  horses’  heads,  and,  with  ready  tact,  and 
before  I had  helped  my  cousin  to  the  ground,  succeeded  in  im- 
harnessing  them  from  the  carriage,  and  led  them,  blown  and 
panting,  covered  with  foam,  and  splashed  with  mud,  into  the 
space  before  the  door. 

By  this  time  we  were  joined  by  the  whole  Blake-  family,  who 
poured  forth  in  astonishment  at  our  strange  and  sudden  appear- 
ance. Explanation  on  my  part  was  unnecessary,  for  Baby,  with  a 
volubility  quite  her  own,  gave  the  whole  recital  in  less  than 
three  minutes.  From  the  moment  of  her  advent  to  her  depart^ 
ure,  they  had  it  all;  and  while  she  mingled  her  ridicule  at  my 
surprise,  her  praise  of  my  luncheon,  her  jests  at  rny  prudence, 
the  whole  family  joined  heartily  in  her  mirth,  while  they  wel- 
comed, with  most  unequivocal  warmth,  my  first  visit  to  Gurt- 
na-morra. 

I confess  it  was  with  no  slight  gratification  I remarked  that 
Baby’s  visit  was  as  much  a matter  of  surprise  to  them  as  to  me. 
Believing  her  to  have  gone  to  visit  at  Portumna  Castle,  they  felt 
no  uneasiness  at  her  absence;  so  that,  in  her  descent  upon  me, 
she  was  really  only  guided  by  her  own  willful  fancy,  and  that 
total  absence  of  all  consciousness  of  wrong  which  makes  a truly 
innocent  girl  the  hardiest  of  all  God’s  creatures.  I felt  reassured 
by  this  feeling,  and  satisfied  that,  whatever  the  intentions  of  the 
elder  members  of  the  Blake  family.  Baby  was,  at  least,  no  par- 
ticipator in  their  plots,  nor  sharer  in  their  intrigues. 


CHARLES  SMALLEY, 


m 


CHAPTER  CXII. 

When  I found  myself  the  next  morning  at  home,  I could  not 
help  ruminating  over  the  strange  adventures  of  the  preceding 
day,  and  felt  a kind  of  self-reproach  at  the  frigid  manner  in 
which  I had  hitherto  treated  all  the  Blake  advances,  contrasting 
so  ill  for  me  with  the  unaffected  warmth  and  kind  good  nature 
of  their  reception.  Never  alluding,  even  by  accident,  to  my  late 
estrangement;  never,  by  a chance  speech,  indicating  that  they 
felt  any  soreness  for  the  past— they  talked  away  about  the  gos- 
sip of  tjfie  country — its  feuds,  its  dinners,  its  assizes,  its  balls,  its 
garrisons — all  the  varied  subjects  of  country  life  were  gayly  and 
laughingly  discussed,  and  when,  as  I entered  my  own  silent  and 
deserted  home,  and  contrasted  its  look  of  melancholy  and  gloom 
with  the  gay  and  merry  scene  I so  lately  parted  from;  when  my 
echoing  steps  reverberated  along  the  flagged  hall,  I thought  of 
the  happy  tableaux  de  famille  I left  behind  me,  and  could  not 
help  avowing  to  myself,  that  the  goods  of  fortune  I possessed 
were  but  ill-dispensed,  when,  in  the  midst  of  every  means  and 
appliance  for  comfort  and  happiness,  I lived  a solitary  man, 
companionless  and  alone. 

I arose  from  the  breakfast  a hundred  times;  now  walking  im- 
patiently toward  the  window,  now  strolling  into  the  drawing- 
room. Around,  on  every  side,  lay  scattered  the  prints  and 
drawings,  as  Baby  had  thrown  them  carelessly  upon  the  floor; 
her  handkerchief  was  also  there.  I took  it  up;  I know  not  why; 
some  lurking  leaven  of  old  romance  perhaps  suggested  it;  but  I 
hoped  it  might  prove  of  dehcate  texture,  and  bespeaking  that 
lady-like  coquetry  which  so  pleasantly  associates  with  the  sex 
in  our  minds.  Alas!  no.  Nothing  could  be  more  palpably 
the  opposite;  torn,  and  with  a knot — some  hint  to  memory — 
upon  one  corner,  it  was  no  aid  to  my  careering  fancy.  And  yet 
— and  yet,  what  a handsome  girl  she  is!  how  finely,  how 
delicately  formed  that  Greek  outline  of  forehead  and  brow!  how 
transparently  soft  that  downy  pink  upon  her  cheek!  with  what 
varied  expression  those  eyes  can  beam! — ay,  that  they  can;  but, 
confound  it!  there’s  this  fault — their  very  archness — their  sly 
malice — will  be  interpreted  by  the  ill-judging  world  to  any  but 
the  real  motive.  “ How  like  a flirt!”  will  one  say;  “ How  im- 
pertinent! how  ill-bred!”  The  conventional  stare  of  a cold, 
paletted,  painted  beauty,  upon  whose  unblushing  cheek  no  stray 
tinge  of  modesty  has  wandered,  will  be  tolerated — even  admired; 
while  the  artless  beamings  of  the  soul  upon  the  face  of  rural 
loveliness  will  be  condemned  without  appeal. 

Such  a girl  may  a man  marry  who  destines  his  days  to  his 
wild  nest;  but  woe  unto  him! — woe  unto  him!  should  he  migrate 
among  the  more  civilized  and  less  charitable  coteries  of  our 
neighbors. 

‘‘  Ah!  here  are  the  papers,  and  I was  forgetting.  Let  me  see 
— ‘Bayonne’ — ay,  ‘march  of  the  troops — sixth  corps.’  What 
can  that  be  withbut  ? I say,  Mike,  who  is  cantering  along  the 
avenue 


282 


CHARLES  aUALLEY. 


‘‘  It’s  me,  sir.  I’m  training  the  brown  filly  for  Miss  Mary,  as 
your  honor  bid  me  last  night.” 

“Ah,  very  true.  Does  she  go  quietly  ?” 

“ Like  a lamb,  sir;  barrin'  she  does  give  a kick  now  and  then 
at  the  stick  when  it  hangs  against  her  legs.” 

“ Am  I to  go  over  with  the  books  now,  sir?”  said  a wild-look- 
ing shock-head,  appearing  within  the  door. 

“ Yes,  take  them  over,  with  my  compliments;  and  say  I hope 
Miss  Mary  Blake  has  caught  no  cold.” 

“ You  were  speaking  about  a habit  and  hat,  sir?”  said  Mrs. 
Magra,  courtesy ing  as  she  entered. 

“ Yes,  Mrs.  Magra,  I want  your  advice Oh,  tell  Barnes  I 

really  cannot  be  bored  about  those  eternal  turnips  every  day  of 
my  life.  And,  Mike,  I wish  you’d  make  them  look  over  the 
four-horse  harness.  I wish  to  try  those  grays,  they  tell  me  they’ll 
run  well  together.  Well,  Freney,  more  complaints  I hope? 
nothing  but  trespasses;  I don’t  care,  so  you’d  not  woiTy  me,  if 
they  eat  up  every  blade  of  clover  in  the  grounds;  I'm  sick  of 
being  bored  this  way.  Did  you  say  that  we’d  eight  couple  of 
good  dogs?  quite  enough  to  begin  with.  Tell  Jones  to  ride  into 
Banagher,  and  look  after  that  box;  Buck  water  sent  it  from 
London  two  months  ago,  and  it  has  been  lying  there  ever  since. 
And,  Mrs.  Magra,  pray  let  the  windows  be  opened,  and  the  house 
well  aired;  that  drawing-room  would  be  all  the  better  for  new 
papering.” 

These  few  and  broken  directions  may  serve  to  show  my 
readers — what  certainly  they  failed  to  convince  myself  of — that 
a new  chapter  of  my  life  had  opened  before  me;  and  that,  in 
proportion  to  the  length  of  time  my  feelings  had  found  neither 
vent  nor  outlet,  they  now  rushed  madly,  tempestuously,  into 
their  new  channels,  suffering  no  impediment  to  arrest,  no 
obstacle  to  oppose  their  current. 

Nothing  can  be  conceived  more  opposite  to  my  late,  than  my 
present  habits  now  became;  the  house,  the  grounds,  the  gar- 
dens, all  seemed  to  participate  in  the  new  influence  which 
beamed  upon  myself:  the  stir  and  bustle  of  active  life  were 
everywhere  perceptible,  and  amid  numerous  preparations  for 
the  moors  and  the  hunting-field,  for  pleasure  parties  upon  the 
river,  and  fishing  excursions  up  the  mountains,  my  days  were 
spent.  The  Blakes,  without  even  for  a moment  pressing  their 
attentions  upon  me,  permitted  me  to  go  and  come  among  them 
unquestioned  and  unasked.  When  nearly  every  morning  I 
appeared  in  the  breakfast-room,  I felt  exactly  like  a member  of 
the  family;  the  hundred  little  discrepancies  of  thought  and 
habit  which  struck  mo  forcibly  at  first,  looked  daily  less 
apparent;  the  careless  inattentions  of  my  fair  cousins  as  to  dress, 
their  free  and  easy,  boisterous  manner,  their  very  accents  which 
fell  so  harshly  on  my  ear,  gradually  made  less  and  less  impression, 
until  at  last,  when  a raw  English  ensign  just  arrived  in  the 
neighborhood,  remarked  to  me  in  confidence,  what  devilish  fine 
girls  they  were,  if  they  were  not  so  confoundedly  Irish,  I could 
not  help  wondering  what  the  fellow  meant,  and  attributing  the 
observation  more  to  his  ignorance  than  to  its  truth. 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


938 


Papa  and  mamma  Blake,  like  prudent  generals,  so  long  as  they 
saw  the  forces  of  the  enemy  daily  wasting  before  them,  so  long 
as  they  could  with  impunity  carry  on  the  war  at  his  expense, 
resolved  to  risk  nothing  by  a pitched  battle.  Unlike  the  Dal- 
rymples,  they  could  leave  all  to  time. 

Oh!  tell  me  not  of  dark  eyes  swimming  in  their  own  ethereal 
essence;  tell  me  not  of  pouting  lips,  or  glossy  ringlets,  of  taper 
fingers,  and  well-rounded  insteps.  Speak  not  to  me  of  soft  voices, 
whose  seductive  sounds  ring  sweetly  in  our  hearts:  preach  not 
of  those  thousand  womanly  graces  so  dear  to  every  man,  and 
doubly  to  him  who  lives  apart  from  all  their  influences  and  their 
fascinations;  neither  dwell  upon  congenial  temperament,  sim- 
ilarity of  taste,  of  disposition,  and  of  thought;  these  are  not  the 
great  risks  a man  runs  in  life.  Of  all  the  temptations,  strong  as 
these  may  be,  there  is  one  greater  than  them  all,  and  that  is 
propinquity. 

Show  me  the  man  who  has  ever  stood  this  test;  show  me  the 
man,  deserving  the  name  of  such,  who  has  become  daily  and 
hourly  exposed  to  the  breaching  artillery  of  flashing  eyes,  of 
soft  voices,  of  winning  smiles,  and  kind  speeches,  and  who 
hasn’t  felt,  and  that  too  soon,  too,  a breach  within  the  rampart 
of  his  heart;  he  may,  it  is  true,  nay,  he  will  in  many  cases,  make 
a bold  and  vigorous  defense.  Sometimes  will  he  reintrench 
himself  within  the  stockades  of  his  prudence,  but,  alas!  it  is  only 
to  defer  the  moment  when  he  must  lay  down  his  arms.  He 
may,  like  a wise  man,  who  sees  his  fate  inevitable,  make  a 
virtue  of  necessity,  and  surrender  at  discretion,  for,  like  a crafty 
foe  seeing  his  doom  before  him  under  the  cover  of  the  night,  he 
may  make  a sortie  from  the  garrison,  and  run  for  his  life.  Ig- 
nominious as  such  a course  must  be,  it  is  often  the  only  one  left. 

But,  to  come  back.  Love,  like  the  small-pox,  is  most  dangerous 
when  you  take  it  in  the  natural  way.  Those  made  matches, 
which  Heaven  is  supposed  to  have  a hand  in,  when  placing  an 
unmarried  gentleman’s  property  in  the  neighborhood  of  an  un- 
married lady’s;  who  destined  two  people  for  each  other  in  life, 
because  their  well-judging  friends  have  agreed  “they’ll  do  very 
well;  they  were  made  for  each  other.”  These  are  the  mild  cases  of 
the  malady;  this  process  of  friendly  vaccination  takes  out  the  poi- 
son of  the  disease,  substituting  a more  harmless  and  less  exciting 
affection;  but  the  really  dangerous  instances  are  those  from  con- 
tact, that  same  propinquity,  that  confounded  tendency  every 
man  yields  to,  to  fall  into  a railroad  of  habit;  that  is  the  risk,  that 
is  the  danger.  What  a bore  it  is  to  find  that  the  absence  of  one 
person,  with  whom  you’re  in  no  wise  in  love,  will  spoil  your 
morning’s  canter,  or  your  rowing  party  upon  the  river!  How 
much  put  out  are  you  when  she  to  whom  you  always  gave  your 
arm  in  to  dinner,  does  not  make  her  appearance  in  the  drawing- 
room; and  your  tea,  too,  some  careless  one,  indifferent  to  your 
taste,  puts  a lump  of  sugar  too  little,  or  cream  too  much,  while 

she But  no  mattor,  habit  has  done  for  you  what  no  direct 

influence  of  beauty  could  do;  and,  a slave  to  your  own  selfish  in- 
dulgences, and  the  cultivation  of  that  ease  you  prize  so  highly, 
you  fall  over  head  and  heels  in  love. 


234 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


Now,  you  are  not,  my  good  reader,  by  any  means  to  suppose 
that  this  was  my  case.  No,  no;  I was  too  much  what  the  world 
terms  the'old  soldier  for  that.  To  continue  my  illustrations,  like 
the  fortress  that  has  been  besieged,  the  sentry  upon  the  walls 
keeps  a more  vigilant  watch;  his  ear  detects  the  far-off  clank  of 
the  dread  artillery;  he  marks  each  parallel;  he  notes  down  every 
breaching  battery;  and  if  he  be  conquered,  if  he  be  captured,  at 
least,  it  is  in  fair  fight. 

Such  were  some  of  my  reflections  as  I rode  slowly  home  one 
evening  from  Gurt-na-morra.  Many  a time,  latterly,  had  I con- 
trasted my  lonely  and  deserted  hearth  with  the  smiling  looks, 
the  happy  faces,  and  the  merry  "voices  I had  left  behind  me;  and 
many  a time  did  I ask  myself:  ‘‘Ami  never  to  partake  of  a 
happiness  like  this  How  many  a man  is  seduced  into  matri- 
mony from  this  very  feeling.  How  many  a man  whose  hours 
have  passed  fieetingly  at  the  pleasant  tea-table,  or  by  the  warm 
hearth  of  some  old  country  house,  going  forth  into  the  cold  and 
cheerless  night,  reaches  his  far-off’  home  only  to  find  it  dark  and 
gloomy,  joyless  and  companionless?  how  often  has  the  hard- 
visaged  look  of  his  old  butler,  as,  with  sleepy  eyes  and  yawning 
face,  he  hands  a bed -room  candle,  suggested  thoughts  of  married 
happiness.  Of  the  perils  of  propinquity,  1 have  already  spoken; 
the  risks  of  contrast  are  also  great.  Have  you  never  in  stroll- 
ing through  some  fragrant  and  rich  conservatory,  fixed  your 
eye  upon  a fair  and  lovely  fiower,  whose  blossoming  beauty 
seems  to  give  all  the  luster  and  all  the  incense  of  the  scene 
around?  and  how  have  you  thought  it  would  adorn  and  grace 
the  precincts  of  your  home,  diffusing  fragrance  on  every  side. 
Alas!  the  experiment  is  nol  always  successful.  Much  of  the 
charm,  and  many  of  the  fascinations  which  delight  you  are  the 
result  of  association  of  time  and  of  place.  The  lovely  voice,  whose 
tones  have  spoken  to  your  heart,  may,  like  some  instrument,  be 
delightful  in  the  harmony  of  the  orchestra,  but,  after  all,  prove 
a very  middling  performer  in  a solo. 

I say  not  this  to  deter  men  from  matrimony,  but  to  warn  them 
from  a miscalculation  which  may  mar  their  happiness.  Flirta- 
tion is  a very  fine  thing,  but  it’s  only  a state  of  transition,  after 
all;  the  tadpole  existence  of  the  lover  would  be  great  fun,  if  one 
was  never  to  become  a frog  under  the  hands  of  the  parson.  I 
say  all  this  dispassionately  and  advisedly;  hke  the  poet  of  my 
country,  for  many  years  of  my  life, 

“My  only  books  were  woman’s  looks,” 
and  certainly  I subscribed  to  his  circulating  library. 

All  this  long  digression  may  perhaps  bring  the  reader  to  where 
it  brought  me — the  very  palpable  conviction,  that,  though  not  in 
love  with  my  cousin  Baby,  I could  not  tell  when  I might  event- 
ually become  so. 


CHAPTER  CXIII. 

A RECOGNITION. 

The  most  pleasing  part  about  retrospect  is  the  memory  of  our 
bygone  hopes.  The  past,  however  happy,  however  blissful, 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


835 


few  would  wish  to  live  over  again;  but  who  is  there  that  does 
not  long  for,  does  not  pine  after  the  day-dream  which  gilded  the 
future — which  looked  ever  forward  to  the  time  to  come  as  to  a 
realization  of  all  that  was  dear  to  us;  lightening  our  present 
cares,  soothing  our  passing  sorrows  by  that  one  thought? 

Life  is  marked  out  in  periods  in  which,  like  stages  in  a journey, 
we  rest  and  repose  ourselves,  casting  a look  now  back  upon  the 
road  we  have  been  traveling;  now  throwing  a keener  glance 
toward  the  path  left  us.  It  is  at  such  spots  as  these  remem- 
brance comes  full  upon  us,  and  that  we  feel  how  little  our  inten- 
tions have  swayed  our  career  or  influenced  our  actions;  the 
aspirations,  the  resolves  of  youth,  are  either  looked  upon  as 
puerile  follies,  or  a more  distant  day  settled  on  for  their  realiza- 
tion. The  principles  we  fondly  looked  to,  like  our  guide-stars, 
are  dimly  visible,  not  seen;  the  friends  we  cherished  are  changed 
and  gone;  the  scenes  themselves  seem  no  longer  the  sunshine 
and  the  shade  we  loved;  and,  in  fact,  we  are  living  in  a new 
world,  where  our  own  altered  condition  gives  the  type  to  all 
around  us;  the  only  link  that  binds  us  to  the  past  being  that 
same  memory,  that,  like  a sad  curfew,  tolls  the  twilight  of  our 
fairest  dreams  and  most  cherished  wishes. 

That  these  glimpses  of  the  bygone  season  of  our  youth  should 
be  but  fitful  and  passing — tingeing,  not  coloring,  the  landscape 
of  our  life — we  should  be  engaged  in  all  the  active  bustle  and 
turmoil  of  the  world,  surrounded  by  the  objects  of  hope,  love, 
and  ambition,  stemming  the  strong  tide  in  whose  fountain 
is  fortune. 

He,  however,  who  lives  apart,  a dreamy  and  a passionless 
existence,  will  find  that  in  the  past,  more  than  in  the  future, 
his  thoughts  have  found  their  resting  place;  memory  usurps 
the  place  of  hope,  and  he  travels  through  life  like  one  walking 
onward;  his  eyes  still  turning  toward  some  loved,  forsaken  spot, 
teeming  with  all  the  associations  of  his  happiest  hours,  and 
preserving,  even  in  a distance,  the  outline  that  he  loved. 

Distance?  in  time,  as  in  space,  smooths  down  all  the  inequal- 
ities of  surface;  and,  as  the  cragged  and  rugged  mountain, 
darkened  by  cliff  and  precipice,  shows  to  the  far-off  traveler 
but  some  blue  and  misty  mass,  so  the  long-lost-sight-of  hours 
lose  all  the  cares  and  griefs  that  tinged  them;  and,  to  our 
mental  eye,  are  but  objects  of  uniform  loveliness  and  beauty; 
and  if  we  do  not  think  of 

The  smiles — the  tears 
Of  boyhood’s  years, 

it  is  because,  like  April  showers,  they  but  checker  the  spring  of 
our  existence. 

For  myself,  baffled  in  hope  at  a period  when  most  men  but 
begin  to  feel  it,  I thought  myself  much  older  than  I really  was; 
the  disappointments  of  the  world,  like  the  storms  of  the  ocean, 
impart  a false  sense  of  experience  to  the  young  heart,  as  he 
sails  forth  upon  his  voyage,  and  it  is  an  easy  error  to  mistake 
trials  for  time. 

The  goods  of  fortune  by  which  I was  surrounded  took  nothing 


286 


CHARLES  a M ALLEY. 


from  the  bitterness  of  my  retrospect;  on  the  contrary,  I couW 
not  help  feeling  that  every  luxury  of  my  life  was  bought  by  my 
surrender  of  that  career  which  had  elated  me  in  my  own  esteem; 
and  which,  setting  a high  and  noble  object  of  ambition  before 
me,  taught  me  to  be  a man. 

To  be  happy,  one  must  not  only  fulfill  the  duties  and  exactions 
of  his  station,  but  the  station  itself  must  answer  to  his  views 
and  aspirations  in  life.  Now,  mine  did  not  sustain  this  condi- 
tion; all  that  my  life  had  of  promise  was  connected  with  the 
memory  of  her  who  never  could  share  my  fortunes;  of  her  for 
whom  I had  earned  praise  and  honor;  becoming  ambitious  as 
the  road  to  her  affection,  only  to  learn  after,  that  my  hopes 
were  but  a dream,  and  my  paradise  a wilderness. 

While  thus  the  inglorious  current  of  my  life  ran  on,  I was  not 
indifferent  to  the  mighty  events  the  great  continent  of  Europe 
was  witnessing;  the  successes  of  the  Peninsular  campaign; 
the  triumphant  entry  of  the  British  into  France;  the  down- 
fall of  Napoleon;  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  followed 
each  other  with  the  rapidity  of  the  most  commonplace  occur- 
rences; and  in  the  few  short  years  in  which  I had  sprung  from 
boyhood  to  man’s  estate,  the  whole  condition  of  the’  world  was 
altered;  kings  deposed;  great  armies  disbanded;  rightful  sover- 
eigns restored  to  their  dominions;  banished  and  exiled  men  re- 
turned to  their  country,  invested  with  rank  and  riches;  and 
peace,  in  the  fullest  tide  of  its  blessings,  poured  down  upon  the 
earth,  devastated  and  blood-stained. 

Years  passed  on;  and  between  the  careless  abandonment  to 
the  mere  amusement  of  the  hour,  and  the  darker  meditation 
upon  the  past,  the  time  slipped  away.  Prom  my  old  friends  and 
brother  officers  I heard  but  rarely.  Power,  who  at  first  wrote 
frequently,  grew  gradually  less  and  less  communicative.  Web- 
ber, who  had  gone  to  Paris  at  the  peace,  had  written  but  one 
letter;  while  from  the  rest,  a few  straggling  lines  was  all  I re- 
ceived. In  truth,  be  it  told,  my  own  negligence  and  inability  to 
reply,  cost  me  this  apparent  neglect. 

It  was  a fine  evening  in  May,  when,  rigging  up  a spritsail,  I 
jumped  into  my  yawl,  and  dropped  easily  down  the  river;  the 
light  wind  gently  curled  the  crested  water;  the  trees  waved 
gently  and  shook  their  branches  in  the  breeze,  and  my  little  bark, 
bending  slightly  beneath,  rustled  on  her  foamy  track  with  that 
joyous  bounding  motion  so  inspiriting  to  one’s  heart.  The  clouds 
were  flying  swiftly  past,  tingeing  with  their  shadows  the  mount- 
ains beneath;  the  Munster  shore,  glowing  with  a rich  sunlight, 
showed  every  shee})-cot  and  every  hedge-row  clearly  out,  while 
the  deep  shadow  of  tall  Scariff  darkened  the  silent  river  where 
Holy  Island,  with  its  ruined  churches  and  melancholy  tower, 
v/ere  reflected  in  the  still  water. 

It  was  a thoroughly  Irish  landscape;  the  changeful  sky;  the 
fast  Hitting  shadows;  "the  brilliant  sunlight;  the  plenteous  fields; 
the  broad  and  swelling  stream;  the  dark  mountain,  from  whose 
brown  crest  a wreath  of  thin  blue  smoke  was  rising — were  all 
there  smiling,*yet  sadly,  like  her  ovm  sons,  across  whose  lower- 
ing brow  some  fitful  flash  of  fancy  ever  playing  dallies  like  sui> 


CHARLES  OMALLEY.  237 

beams  on  a darkening  stream,  nor  marks  the  depth  that  lies 
below. 

I sat  musing  over  the  strange  harmony  of  nature  with  the  tem- 
perament of  man,  every  phase  of  his  passionate  existence  seem- 
ing to  have  its  type  in  things  inanimate:  when  a loud  cheer  from 
the  land  aroused  me,  and  the  words  “ Charley!  cousin  Charley!” 
came  wafted  over  the  water  to  where  I lay. 

For  some  time  I could  but  distinguish  the  faint  outlines  of 
some  figures  on  the  shore,  but,  as  I came  nearer,  I recognized 
my  fair  cousin  Baby,  who  with  a younger  brother  of  some  eight 
or  nine  years  old,  was  taking  an  evening  walk. 

“ Do  you  know,  Charley,”  said  she,  “ the  boys  have  gone  over 
to  the  castle  to  look  for  you;  particularly  this  evening.” 

“ Indeed,  Baby;  well  I fear  you  must  make  my  excuses.” 

‘‘Then,  once  for  all,  I will  not.  I know  this  is  one  of  your 
sulky  moods,  and  I tell  you  frankly  I’ll  not  put  up  with  them 
any  more.” 

“ No,  no,  Baby,  not  so;  out  of  spirits  if  you  will,  but  not  oul 
of  temper.” 

‘ ‘ The  distinction  is  much  too  fine  for  me,  if  there  be  any; 
but  there  now,  do  be  a good  fellow;  come  up  with  us — come  up 
with  meP 

As  she  said  this  she  placed  her  arm  within  mine.  I thought, 
too — perhaps  it  was  but  a thought — she  pressed  me  gently.  I 
know  she  blushed  and  turned  away  her  head  to  hide  it. 

“ I don’t  pretend  to  be  proof  to  yom*  entreaty,  cousin  Baby,” 
said  I,  with  half -affected  gallantry,  putting  her  fingers  to  my 
lips. 

“ There,  how  can  you  be  so  foolish;  look  at  William  yonder; 
I am  sure  he  must  have  seen  you.”  But  William,  God  bless 
him,  was  bird-nesting,  or  butterfly-hunting,  or  daisy  picking,  or 
something  of  that  kind. 

Oh,  ye  loving  brothers,  who,  sufficiently  old  to  be  deemed 
companions  and  chaperons,  but  yet  young  enough  to  be  re 
garded  as  having  neither  eyes  nor  ears,  what  mischief  have  ye 
to  answer  for!  what  a long  reckoning  of  tender  speeches— -ol 
soft  looks — of  pressed  hands — lies  at  your  door!  what  an  incen^ 
tive  to  flirtation  is  the  wily  imp  who  turns  ever  and  anon  from 
his  careless  gambols,  to  throw  his  laughter-loving  eyes  upon 
you,  calling  up  the  mantling  blush  to  both  your  cheeks!  He 
seems  to  chronicle  the  hours  of  your  dalliance,  making  youi 
secrets  known  unto  each  other;  we  have  gone  through  our 
share  of  flirtation  in  this  life;  match-making  mothers,  prying 
aunts,  choleric  uncles,  benevolent  and  open-hearted  fathers, 
we  understand  to  the  life,  and  care  no  more  for  such  man- 
traps,  than  a Melton  man,  well  mounted  on  his  strong-boned 
thoroughbred,  does  for  a four-barred  ox-fence  that  lies  be- 
fore him.  Like  him,  we  take  them  flying;  never  relaxing 
the  slapping  stride  of  our  loose  gallop;  we  go  straight 
ahead,  never  turning  aside,  except  for  a laugh  for  those  who 
flounder  in  the  swamps  we  sneer  at.  But  we  confess  honestly, 
we  fear  the  little  brother,  the  smafl  urchin  who,  with  nankeen 
trowsers  and  three  rows  of  buttons,  performs  the  part  of  Cupid; 


CHARLES  omALLEV 


he  strikes  real  terror  into  our  hearts;  he  it  is,  who  with  a cun- 
ning wink,  or  sly  smile,  seems  to  confirm  the  soft  nonsense  we 
are  weaving;  by  some  slight  gesture  he  seems  to  check  ofl  the 
long  reckonings  of  our  attentions,  bringing  us  every  moment 
nearer  to  the  time  when  the  score  must  be  settled,  and  the  debt 
paid;  he  it  is  who,  by  a memory  delightfully  oblivious  of  his 
task  and  his  table-  book,  is  tenacious  to  the  life  of  what  you  said 
to  Fanny;  how  you  put  your  head  under  Lucy’s  bonnet;  he  can 
imitate  to  perfection  the  way  you  kneeled  upon  the  grass;  and 
the  wretch  has  learned  to  smack  his  lips  like  a gourmand^  that 
he  may  convey  another  stage  of  your  proceeding. 

Oh,  for  infant  schools,  for  everything  under  the  age  of  ten! 
Oh,  for  factories  for  the  children  of  the  rich  I The  age  of  prying 
curiosity  is  from  four-and-a-half  to  nine,  and  Fouche  himself 
might  get  a lesson  in  _poZ^C6  from  an  urchin  in  his  alphabet. 

I contrived  soon,  however,  to  forget  the  presence  of  even  the 
little  brother.  The  night  was  falling;  Baby  appeared  getting  fa- 
tigued with  her  walk,  for  she  leaned  somewhat  more  heavily  upon 
my  arm,  and  I — I cannot  tell  wherefore — fell  into  that  train  of 
thinking  aloud,  which  somehow,  upon  a summer’s  eve,  with  a 
fair  girl  beside  one,  is  the  very  nearest  thing  to  love-making. 

‘‘  There,  Charley — don’t  now — ah,  don’t — do  let  go  of  my  hand 
— ^they  are  coming  down  the  avenue.” 

I had  scarcely  time  to  obey  the  injunction,  when  Mr.  Blake 
called  out; 

“Well,  indeed! — Charley,  this  is  really  fortunate;  we  have 
got  a friend  to  take  tea  with  us,  and  wanted  you  to  meet  him.” 

Muttering  an  internal  prayer  for  something  not  exactly  the 
welfare  of  the  aforesaid  friend,  whom  I judged  to  be  some  Gal- 
way squire,  I professed  aloud  the  pleasure  I felt  in  having  come 
in  so  opportunely. 

“ He  wishes  particularly  to  make  your  acquaintance.” 

“So  much  the  worse,”  thought  I to  myself;  “it rarely  hap- 
pens that  this  feeling  is  mutual.” 

Evidently  provoked  at  the  little  curiosity  I exhibited,  Blake 
added: 

“ He’s  on  his  way  to  Fermoy  with  a detachment.” 

“ Indeed!  what  regiment,  pray  ?” 

“ The  Twenty-eighth  foot.” 

“ Ah,  I don’t  know  them.” 

By  this  time  we  reached  the  steps  of  the  hall-door,  and  just 
as  we  did  so,  the  door  opened  suddenly,  and  a tall  figure  in  uni- 
form presented  himself.  With  one  spring  he  seized  my  hand 
and  nearly  wrung  it  off. 

“ Why,  what,”  said  I,  “ can  this  be  ? is  it  really ” 

“Sparks,”  said  he,  “your  old  friend  Sparks,  my  boy;  I’ve 
changed  into  the  infantry,  and  here  I am.  Heard  by  chance 
you  were  in  the  neighborhood — met  Mr.  Blake,  your  friend  here, 
at  the  inn,  and  accepted  his  invitation  to  meet  you.” 

Poor  Sparks,  albeit  the  difference  of  his  costume,  was  the 
same  as  ever.  Having  left  the  Fourteenth  soon  after  I quitted 
them,  he  knew  but  little  of  their  fortunes;  and  he  himself  had 


CHARLES  HMALLEY.  289 

been  on  recruiting  stations  nearly  the  whole  time  since  we  met 
before. 

While  we  each  continued  to  extol  the  good  fortune  of  the 
other — he  mine  as  being  no  longer  in  the  service,  and  I his  for 
being  still  so — we  learned  the  various  changes  which  had  hap- 
pened to  each  of  us  during  our  separation.  Although  his  des- 
tination was  ultimately  Ferraoy,  Portumna  was  ordered  to  be 
his  present  quarter;  and  I felt  delighted  to  have  once  more  an 
old  companion  within  reach,  to  chat  over  former  days  of  cam 
paigning  and  nights  of  merriment  in  the  Peninsula. 

Sparks  soon  became  a constant  visitor  and  guest  at  Gurt- 
na  morra;  his  good  temper,  his  easy  habits,  his  simplicity  of 
character,  rapidly  enabled  him  to  fall  into  all  their  ways;  and, 
although  evidently  not  what  Baby  would  call  “ the  man  for 
Galway,”  he  endeavored  with  all  his  might  to  please  every  one, 
and  certainly  succeeded  to  a considerable  extent. 

Baby  alone  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  tormenting  the  poor 
sub.  Long  before  she  met  with  him,  having  heard  much  from 
me  of  his  exploits  abroad,  she  was  continually  bringing  up  some 
anecdote  of  his  unhappy  loves  or  misplaced  passion;  which  he 
evidently  smarted  under  the  more,  from  the  circumstance  that 
he  appeared  rather  inclined  to  like  my  fair  cousin. 

As  she  continued  this  for  some  time,  I remarked  that  Sparks, 
who  at  first  was  all  gayety  and  high  spirits,  grew  gradually  more 
depressed  and  dispirited.  I became  convinced  that  the  poor 
fellow  was  in  love;  very  little  management  on  my  part  was 
necessary  to  obtain  his  confession;  and,  accordingly,  the  same 
evening  "the  thought  first  struck  me,  as  we  were  riding  slowly 
home  toward  O’Malley  Castle,  I touched  at  first  generally  upon 
the  merits  of  the  Blakes,  their  hospitality,  &c. ; then  diverged 
to  the  accomplishments  and  perfections  of  the  girls;  and  lastly. 
Baby  herself,  in  all  form,  came  up  for  sentence. 

‘‘Ah,  yes!”  said  Sparks,  with  a deep  sigh,  “ it  is  quite  as  you 
say;  she  is  a lovely  girl;  and  that  liveliness  in  her  character, 
that  elasticity  in  her  temperament,  chastened  down  as  it  might 
be  by  the  feeling  of  respect  for  the  man  she  loved.  I say,  Char- 
ley, is  it  a very  long  attachment  of  yours  ?” 

“ A long  attachment  of  mine!  Why,  my  dear  Sparks,  you 
cannot  suppose  that  there  is  anything  between  us;  I pledge  you 
my  word  most  faithfully.” 

“ Oh,  no,  don’t  tell  me  that;  what  good  can  there  be  in  mysti- 
fying me  ?” 

“ I have  no  such  intention,  believe  me.  My  cousin  Baby, 
however  I like  and  admire  her,  has  no  other  place  in  my  affec- 
tion than  a very  charming  girl,  who  has  lightened  a great  many 
dreary  and  tiresome  hours,  and  made  my  banishment  from  the 
world  less  irksome  than  I should  have  found  it  without  her.” 

“ And  you  are  really  not  in  love  ?” 

“ Not  a bit  of  it!” 

“ Nor  going  to  marry  her,  either?” 

“ Not  the  least  notion  of  it! — a fact.  Baby  and  I are  excellent 
friends,  for  the  very  reason  that  we  were  never  lovers;  we  have 
had  no  petitsjeuxot  fallings  out  and  making  up;  no  bide  and  seek 


240 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


trials  of  affected  indifference  and  real  disappointments;  no  secrets, 
no  griefs  nor  grudges,  neither  quarrels  nor  keepsakes.  In  fact, 
we  are  capital  cousins;  quizzing  every  one  for  our  own  amuse- 
ment; riding,  walking,  boating  together;  in  fact  doing  and  think- 
ing everything  save  sighs  and  declarations;  always  happy  to 
meet,  and  never  broken-hearted  when  we  part.  And  I can  only 
add,  as  a proof  of  my  sincerity,  that,  if  you  feel  as  I suspect  you 
do  from  your  questions,  111  be  your  embassador  to  the  court  of 
Gurt-na-morra  with  sincere  pleasure.” 

Will  you  really  ? Will  you,  indeed,  Charley,  do  this  for  me? 
Will  you  strengthen  my  wishes  by  your  aid,  and  give  me  all 
your  influence  with  the  family  ?” 

I could  scarcely  help  smiling  at  poor  Sparks’s  eagerness,  or  the 
unwarrantable  value  he  put  upou  my  alliance,  in  a case  where 
his  own  unassisted  efforts  did  not  threaten  much  failure. 

“ I repeat  it.  Sparks,  111  make  a proposal  for  you  in  all  form, 
aided  and  abetted  by  everything  recommendatory  and  laudatory 
I can  think  of;  111  talk  of  you  as  a Peninsular  of  no  small  note 
and  promise;  and  observe  rigid  silence  about  your  Welsh  flirta- 
tion and  your  Spanish  elopement.” 

“ Youll  not  blab  about  the  Dalrymples,  I hope?” 

“ Trust  me;  I only  hope  you  will  be  always  equally  discreet; 
but  now — when  shall  it  be?  Should  you  like  to  consider  the 
matter  more?” 

“ Oh,  no,  nothing  of  the  kind;  let  it  be  to-morrow;  at  once,  if 
I am  to  fail;  even  that,  anything’s  better  than  suspense.” 

“Well,  then  to-morrow  be  it,”  said  I. 

So  I wished  him  a good  night,  and  a stout  heart  to  bear  his 
fortune  withal. 


CHAPTER  CXIV. 

I ORDERED  my  horses  at  an  early  hour,  and  long  before  Sparks 
— lover  that  he  was — had  opened  his  eyes  to  the  light,  was  al- 
ready on  my  way  toward  Gurt-na-morra.  Several  miles  slipped 
away  before  I well  determined  how  I should  open  my  negotia- 
tions; whether  to  papa  Blake  in  the  first  instance,  or  to  madam, 
to  whose  peculiar  province  these  secrets  of  the  home  department 
belonged;  or,  why  not  at  once  to  Baby?  because,  after  all,  with 
her  it  rested  finally  to  accept  or  refuse.  To  address  myself  to 
the  heads  of  the  department  seemed  the  more  formal  course, 
and,  as  I was  acting  entirely  as  an  envoye  extraordinaire,  I 
deemed  this  the  fitting  mode  of  proceeding. 

It  was  exactly  eight  o’clock  as  I drove  up  to  the  door.  Mr. 
Blake  was  standing  at  the  open  window  of  the  breakfast-room, 
snuffing  the  fresh  air  of  the  morning.  The  Blake  mother  was 
busily  engaged  with  the  economy  of  the  tea-table;  a very  simple 
style  of  morning  costume,  and  a night-cap  with  a flounce  like  a 
petticoat,  making  her  unaffected  toilet.  Above  stairs,  more 
than  one  head  en  papillote,  took  a furtive  peep  between  the 
curtains;  and  the  butler  of  the  family,  in  corduroys  and  a fur  cap, 
was  weeding  turnips  in  the  lawn  before  the  door. 

Mrs.  Blake  h:id  hardly  time  to  take  ^ hurried  depetti^r^ 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


241 


her  husband  came  out  upon  the  steps  to  bid  me  welcome. 
There  io  no  physiognomist  like  your  father  of  a family  or  your 
mother  with  marriageable  daughters.  Lavater  was  nothing  to 
them  in  reading  the  secret  springs  of  action— the  hidden  sources 
of  all  character.  Had  there  been  a good,  respectable  bump  al- 
lotted by  Spurzheim  to  honorable  intentions,”  the  matter  had 
been  all  fair  and  easy — the  very  first  salute  of  the  gentleman 
would  have  pronounced  upon  his  views;  but  alas!  no  such  guide 
is  forthcoming,  and  the  science,  as  it  now  exists,  is  enveloped  in 
doubt  and  mystery.  The  gay,  laughing  temperament  of  some, 
the  dark  and  serious  composure  of  others;  the  cautious  and  re- 
served, the  open  and  the  candid,  the  witty,  the  sententious,  the 
clever,  the  dull,  the  prudent,  the  reckless — in  a word,  every 
variety  which  the  innumerable  hues  of  character  imprint  upon 
the  human  face  divine,  are  their  study.  Their  convictions  are 
the  slow  and  patient  fruits  of  intense  observation  and  great  logi- 
cal accuracy.  Carefully  noting  down  every  lineament  and 
feature — their  change,  their  action  and  their  development — 
they  track  a lurking  motive  with  the  scent  of  a bloodhound, 
and  run  down  a growing  passion  with  an  unrelenting  speed.  I 
have  been  in  the  witness-box,  exposed  to  the  licensed  badger- 
ing and  pirivileged  impertinence  of  a lawyer;  winked,  leered, 
frowned  and  sneered  at  with  all  the  long-practiced  art  of  a nisi 
prius  torturer;  I have  stood  before  the  cold,  fish-like,  but 
searching  eye  of  a prefect  of  police  as  he  compared  my  passport 
with  my  person,  and  thought  he  could  detect  a discrepancy 
in  both;  but  I never  felt  the  same  sense  of  total  exposure  as 
when  glanced,  at  by  the  half -cautious,  half-prying  look  of  a 
worthy  father  or  mother  in  a family  where  there  are  daughters 
to  marry,  and  “ nobody  coming  to  woo.” 

‘'You’re  early,  Charley,”  said  Mr.  Blake,  with  an  affected 
mixture  of  carelessness  and  warmth.  “You  have  not  had 
breakfast  ?” 

“No,  sir.  I have  come  to  claim  a part  of  yours;  and,  if  I mis- 
take not,  you  seem  a little  later  than  usual.” 

‘ ‘ Not  more  than  a few  minutes.  The  girls  will  be  down  pres- 
ently; they’re  early  risers,  Charley;  good  habits  are  just  as  easy 
as  bad  ones;  and,  the  Lord  be  praised!  my  girls  were  never 
brought  up  with  any  other.” 

“I  am  well  aware  of  it,  sir;  and,  indeed,  if  I 'may  be  per- 
mitted to  take  advantage  of  the  apropos,  it  was  on  the  subject 
of  one  of  your  daughters  that  I wished  to  speak  to  you  this 
morning,  and  which  brought  me  over  at  this  uncivilized  hour, 
hoping  to  find  you  alone.” 

Mr.  Blake’s  look  for  a moment  was  one  of  triumphant  satis- 
faction; it  was  but  a glance,  however,  and  repressed  the  very 
instant  after,  as  he  said  with  a well-got-up  indifference; 

“ Just  step  with  me  into  the  study,  and  we’re  sure  not  to  be 
interrupted.” 

Now,  although  I have  little  time  or  space  for  such  dallying,  I 
cannot  help  dwelling  for  a moment  upon  the  aspect  of  what 
Mr.  Blake  dignified  with  the  name  of  his  study.  It  was  a small 
with  window, 


242 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


of  all  aid  from  a curtain,  tempered  the  daylight  through  the 
medium  of  cobwebs,  dust,  and  the  ill-trained  branches  of  some 
wall  tree  without. 

Three  oak  chairs  and  a small  table  were  the  only  articles  of 
furniture;  while  around,  on  all  sides,  lay  the  injecta  membra  of 
Mr.  Blake’s  hunting,  fishing,  shooting,  and  coursing  equipments 
— old  top-boots,  driving-whips,  old  spurs,  a racing-saddle,  a 
blunderbuss,  the  helmet  of  the  Galway  light-horse,  a salmon- 
net,  a large  map  of  the  county  with  a marginal  index  to  several 
mortgages  markf3d  with  a cross,  a stable  lantern,  the  rudder  of  ‘ 
a boat,  and  several  other  articles  representative  of  his  daily  as- 
sociations; but  not  one  book,  save  an  odd  volume  of  Watty 
Cox’s  Magazine,  whose  pages  seemed  as  much  the  receptacle  oi 
brown  hackles  for  trout-fishing  as  the  resource  of  literary 
leisure. 

“Here  weTl  be  quite  cozy,  and  to  ourselves,”  said  Mr.  Blake, 
as,  placing  a chair  for  me,  he  sat  down  himself  with  the  air  of  a 
man  resolved  to  assist,  by  advice  and  counsel,  the  dilemma  of 
some  dear  friend. 

After  a few  preliminary  observations,  which,  like  a breathing 
canter  before  a race,  serves  to  get  your  courage  up,  and  settle 
you  well  in  your  seat,  I opened  my  negotiations  by  some  very 
broad  and  sweeping  truism  about  the  misfortunes  of  a bachelor 
existence,  the  discomforts  of  his  position,  his  want  of  home  and 
happiness,  the  necessity  for  his  one  day  thinking  seriously  about 
marriage;  it  being  in  a measure  almost  as  inevitable  a termi- 
nation of  the  free  and  easy  career  of  his  single  life  as  transporta- 
tion for  seven  years  is  to  that  of  a poacher.  “You  cannot  go 
on,  sir,”  said  I,  “ trespassing  forever  upon  your  neighbors’  pro- 
serves;  you  must  be  apprehended  sooner  or  later;  therefore,  I 
think,  the  better  way  is  to  take  out  a license.” 

Never  was  a small  sally  of  wit  more  thoroughly  successful.- 
Mr.  Blake  laughed  till  he  cried,  and  when  he  had  done,  wiped 
his  eyes  with  a snuffy  hankerchief,  and  cried  till  he  laughed 
again.  As,  somehow,  I could  not  conceal  from  myself  a sus- 
picion as  to  the  sincerity  of  my  friend’s  mirth,  I merely  consoled 
myself  with  the  French  adage,  that  he  laughs  best  who  laughs 
last;  and  went  on: 

“It  will  not  be  deemed  surprising,  sir,  that  a man  should 
come  to  the , disco  very  I have  just  mentioned  more  rapidly  by 
having  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  intimacy  with  your  family;  not 
only  by  the  example  of  perfect  domestic  happiness  presented  to 
him,  but  by  the  prospect  held  out  that  a heritage  of  the  fair 
gifts  which  adorn  and  grace  married  life,  may  reasonably  be 
looked  for  among  the  daughters  of  those,  themselves  the  realiza- 
tion of  conjugal  felicity.” 

Here  was  a canter  with  a vengeance;  and,  as  I felt  blown,  I 
slackened  my  pace,  coughed,  and  resumed. 

“ Miss  Mary  Blake,  sir,  is  then  the  object  of  my  present  com- 
munication; she  it  is  who  lias  made  an  existence  that  seemed 
fair  and  pleasurable  before,  appear  blank  and  unprofitable  with- 
out her.  I have,  therefore — to  come  at  once  to  the  point^visited 
formally  to  ask  bar  hand  in 


CHARLES  &MALLEY. 


fortune,  I may  observe  at  once,  is  perfectly  immaterial — a mat- 
ter of  no  consequence  (so  Mr.  Blake  thought  also);  a competence 
fully  equal  to  every  reasonable  notion  of  expenditure ” 

“There — there;  don’t,”  said  Mr.  Blake,  wiping  his  eyes  with 
a sob  like  a hiccough,  “ don’t  speak  of  money.  I know  what  you’d 
say;  a handsome  settlement — a well -secured  jointure,  and  all 
that.  Yes,  yes,  I feel  it  all.” 

“Why,  yes,  sir,  I believe  I may  add,  that  everything  in  this 
respect  will  answer  your  expectations.” 

“ Of  course;  to  be  sure.  My  poor  dear  Baby!  how  to  do  with- 
out her,  that’s  the  rub.  You  don’t  know,  O’Malley,  what  that 
girl  is  to  me — you  can’t  know  it;  you’ll  feel  it  one  day  though — 
that  you  will.” 

“ The  devil  I shall!”  said  I to  my  self = 

“ The  point  is,  after  all,  to  learn  the  lady’s  disposition  in  the 
matter ” 

“ Ah,  Charley!  none  of  this  with  me,  you  sly  dog!  You  think 
I don’t  know  you.  Why  I’ve  been  watching — that  is,  I have 
seen — no,  I mean  I’ve  heard-— they — they ; people  will  talk,  you 
know.” 

“ Very  true,  sir.  But,  as  I was  going  to  remark ” 

Just  at  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Miss  Baby  herself, 
looking  most  annoyingly  handsome,  put  in  her  head. 

“ Papa,  we’re  waiting  breakfast.  Ah,  Charley,  how  d’ye  do?” 

“ Come  in.  Baby,”  said  Mr.  Blake;  “ you  haven’t  given  me  my 
kiss  this  morning.” 

The  lovely  girl  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  while  her 
bright  and  flowing  locks  fell  richly  upon  his  shoulder,  I turned 
rather  sulkily  away;  the  thing  always  provokes  me.  There  is 
as  much  cold  selfish  cruelty  in  such  coram  publico  endearments, 
as  in  the  luscious  display  of  rich  rounds  and  sirloins  in  a chop 
house  to  the  eyes  of  the  starved  and  penniless  wretch  without, 
who,  with  dripping  rags  and  watering  lips,  eats  imaginary  slices, 
while  the  pains  of  hunger  are  torturing  him. 

“There’s  Tim!”  said  Mr.  Blake,  suddenly.  “Tim  Cronin! 
Tim!”  shouted  he  to— as  it  seemed  to  me — an  imaginary  individ- 
ual outside;  while  in  the  eagerness  of  pursuit,  he  rushed  out  of 
the  study,  banging  the  door  as  he  went,  and  leaving  Baby  and 
myself  to  our  mutual  edification. 

I should  have  preferred  it  being  otherwise;  but  as  the  Fates 
willed  it  thus,  I took  Baby’s  hand,  and  led  her  to  the  window. 
Now  there  is  one  feature  of  my  countrymen  which,  having 
recognized  strongly  in  myself,  I would  fain  proclaim;  and  -writ- 
ing as  I do— however  little  people  may  suspect  me — solely  for 
the  sake  of  a moral,  would  gladly  warn  the  unsuspecting  against. 
I mean,  a very  decided  tendency  to  become  the  consoler,  the 
confidant  of  young  ladies;  seeking  out  opportunities  of  assuag- 
ing their  sorrow,  reconciling  their  afflictions,  breaking  eventful 
passages  to  their  ears;  not  from  any  inherent  pleasure  in  the 
tragic  phases  of  the  intercourse,  but  for  the  semi- tenderness  of 
manner,  that  harmless  hand- squeezing,  that  innocent  waist- 
pressing, without  which  consolation  is  but  like  salmon  without 
lobster — a thing  maimed,  wanting,  and  imperfect. 


M4. 


CHAELES  SMALLEY. 


Now  whether  this  with  me  was  a natural  gift,  or  merely  a 
“ way  we  have  in  the  army,”  as  the  song  says,  I shall  not  pre- 
tend to  say;  but  I venture  to  affirm  that  few  men  could  excel 
me  in  the  practice  I speak  of  some  five- and-t wen ty  years  ago. 
Fair  reader,  do,  pray,  if  I have  the  happint'ss  of  being  known  to 
you,  deduct  them  from  my  age  before  you  subtract  from  my 
merits. 

“ Well,  Baby  dear,  I have  just  been  speaking  about  you  to 
papa.  Yes,  dear — don’t  look  so  incredulous — even  of  your  own 
sweet  self.  Well,  do  you  know  I almost  prefer  your  hair  worn 
that  way;  those  same  silky  masses  look  better  falling  thus  heav- 
ily  ” 

“There,  now,  Charley!  ah,  don’t.” 

“Well,  Baby,  as  I was  saying,  before  you  stopped  me,  I have 
been  asking  your  papa  a very  important  question,  and  he  has  re- 
ferred me  to  you  for  an  answer.  And  now  will  you  tell  me,  in 
all  frankness  and  honesty,  your  mind  on  the  matter?” 

She  grew  deadly  pale  as  I spoke  these  words;  then  suddenly 
fiushed  up  again,  but  said  not  a word.  I could  perceive,  how- 
ever, from  her  heaving  chest  and  restless  manner,  that  no  com- 
mon agitation  was  stirring  her  bosom.  It  was  cruelty  to  be  silent, 
so  I continued: 

“ One  who  loves  you  well,  Baby  dear,  has  asked  his  own  heart 
the  question,  and  learned  that  without  you  he  has  no  chance  of 
happiness;  that  your  bright  eyes  are  to  him  bluer  than  the  deep 
sky  above  him;  that  your  soft  voice,  your  winning  smile — and 
what  a smile  it  is! — have  taught  him  that  he  loves,  nay,  adores 
you.  Then,  dearest — what  pretty  fingers  those  are!  Ah!  what 
is  this  ? whence  came  that  emerald  ? I never  saw  that  ring  be- 
fore, Baby.” 

“Oh,  that ” said  she  blushing  deeply,  “that  is  a ring  the 

foolish  creature  Sparks  gave  me  a couple  of  days  ago;  but  I don’t 
like  it — I don’t  intend  to  keep  it.” 

So  saying,  she  endeavored  to  draw  it  from  her  finger,  but  in 
vain. 

“But  why.  Baby,  why  take  it  off?  Is  it  to  give  him  the 
pleasure  of  putting  it  on  again?  There,  don’t  get  angry;  we 
must  not  fall  out,  surely.  ” 

“No,  Charley,  if  you  are  not  vexed  with  me — if  you  are 
not ” 

“No,  no,  my  dear  Baby;  nothing  of  the  kind.  Sparks  was 
quite  right  in  not  trusting  his  entire  fortune  to  my  diplomacy; 
but,  at  least,  he  ought  to  have  told  me  that  she  had  opened  the 
negotiation.  Now  the  question  simply  is — Do  you  love  him? 
or  rather,  because  that  shortens  matters — Will  you  accept  him  ?” 

“ Love  who  ?” 

“ Love  whom?  why  Sparks,  to  be  sure.” 

A flash  of  indignant  surprise  passed  across  her  features,  now 
pale  as  marble;  her  lips  were  slightly  parted;  her  large,  full 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  me  steadfastly;  and  her  hand,  which  I had 
held  in  mine,  she  suddenly  withdrew  from  ray  grasp. 

“ AndSso— and  so  it  is  of  Mr.  Sparks’  cause  you  are  so  ardently 


CHARLES  HMALLEY.  g45 

the  advocate?”  said  she,  at  length,  after  a pause  of  most  awk- 
ward duration. 

“ Why,  of  course,  my  dear  cousin.  It  was  at  his  suit  and  solic- 
itation I called  on  your  father;  it  was  he  himself  who  entreated 
me  to  take  this  step;  it  was  he ” 

But  before  I could  conclude,  she  burst  in  a torrent  of  tears, 
and  rushed  from  the  room. 

Here  was  a situation!  What  the  deuce  was  the  matter  ? Did 
she,  or  did  she  not,  care  for  him?  Was  her  pride  or  her  delicacy 
hurt  at  my  being  made  the  means  of  the  communication  to  her 
father  ? What  had  Sparks  done  or  said  to  put  himself  and  me 
in  such  a devil  of  a predicament  ? Could  she  care  for  any  one 
else?” 

“Well,  Charley!”  cried  Mr.  Blake,  as  he  entered,  rubbing  his 
hands  in  a perfect  paroxysm  of  good  temper.  “ Well,  Charley, 
has  love-making  driven  breakfast  out  of  your  head  ?” 

“ Why,  faith,  sir,  I greatly  fear  I have  blundered  my  mission 
sadly.  My  cousin  Mary  does  not  appear  so  perfectly  satisfied; 
her  manner ” 

“ Don’t  tell  me  such  nonsense — the  girl’s  manner!  Why,  man, 
I thought  you  were  too  old  a soldier  to  be  taken  in  that  way.” 

“ Well,  then,  sir,  the  best  thing  under  the  circumstances,  is  to 
send  over  Sparks  himself.  Your  consent,  I may  tell  him,  is 
already  obtained.” 

“Yes,  my  boy;  and  my  daughter’s  is  equally  sure.  But  I 
don’t  see  what  we  want  with  Sparks  at  all;  among  old  friends 
and  relatives,  as  we  are,  there  is,  I think,  no  need  of  a stranger.” 

“A  stranger!  Very  true,  sir,  he  is  a stranger;  but  when  that 
stranger  is  about  to  become  your  son-in-law 

“About  to  become  what?’'  said  Mr.  Blake  rubbing  his  specta- 
cles, and  placing  them  leisurely  on  his  nose  to  regard  me,  “ to 
become  what  ?” 

“ Your  son-in-law.  I hope  I have  been  sufficiently  explicit, 
sir,  in  making  known  Mr.  Sparks’  wishes  to  you.” 

“ Mr.  Sparks!  Why,  damn  me,  sir — that  is — I beg  pardon  for 
the  warmth — you — you  never  mentioned  his  name  to-day  till 
now.  You  led  me  to  suppose  that — in  fact,  you  told  me  most 
clearly ” 

Here,  from  the  united  effects  of  rage  and  a struggle  for  con- 
cealment, Mr.  Blake  was  unable  to  proceed,  and  walked  the 
room  with  a melo-dramatic  stamp  perfectly  awful. 

“ Really,  sir,”  said  I at  last,  “while  I deeply  regret  any  mis- 
conception or  mistake  I have  been  the  cause  of,  I must,  in  justice 
to  myself,  say  that  I am  perfectly  unconscious  of  having  misled 
you.  I came  here  this  morning  with  a proposition  for  the  hand 
of  your  daughter  in  behalf  of ” 

“Yourself,  sir!  Yes,  yourself.  I’ll  be— no!  I’ll  not  swear; 
but — just  answer  me,  if  you  ever  mentioned  one  word  of  Mr. 
Sparks,  if  you  ever  alluded  to  him  till  the  last  few  minutes  ?” 

I was  perfectly  astounded.  It  might  be;  alas!  it  was  exactly 
as  he  stated.  In  my  unlucky  effort  at  extreme  delicacy,  I be- 
came so  very  mysterious  that  I left  the  matter  open  for 


246  CHARLES  O^MALLET. 

them  to  suppose  that  the  Khan  of  Tartary  was  in  love  with 
Baby. 

There  was  but  one  course  now  open.  I most  liumbly 
apologized  for  my  blunder;  repeated,  by  every  expression  I 
could  summon  up,  my  sorrow  for  what  had  happened;  and  was 
beginning  a renewal  of  negotiation  “ in  re  Sparks,”  when, 
overcome  by  his  passion,  Mr.  Blake  could  hear  no  more,  but 
snatched  up  his  hat  and  left  the  room. 

Had  it  not  been  for  Baby’s  share  in  the  transaction,  I should 
have  laughed  outright.  As  it  was,  I felt  anything  but  mirthful ; 
and  the  only  clear  and  collected  idea  in  my  mind  was,  to  hurry 
home  with  all  speed  and  fasten  a quarrel  on  Sparks,  the 
innocent  cause  of  the  whole  mishap.  Why  this  thought  struck 
me,  let  physiologists  decide. 

A few  moments’  reflection  satisfled  me,  that,  under  present 
circumstances,  it  would  be  particularly  awkw^ard  to  meet  with 
any  others  of  the  family.  Ardently  desiring  to  secure  my 
retreat,  I succeeded,  after  some  little  time,  in  opening  the  win- 
dow sash;  consoling  myself  for  any  injury  I was  about  to  inflict 
upon  Mr.  Blake’s  young  plantation  in  my  descent,  by  the 
thought  of  the  service  I was  rendering  him  while  admitting  a 
little  fresh  air  into  his  sanctum. 

For  my  patriotism’s  sake  I will  not  record  my  sensations  as  I 
took  my  way  through  the  shrubbery  toward  the  stable.  Men 
are  ever  so  prone  to  revenge  their  faults  and  their  follies  upon 
such  inoffensive  agencies  as  time  and  place,  wind  or  weather, 
that  I was  quite  convinced  that  to  any  other  but  Galway  ears 
my  expose  would  have  been  perfectly  clear  and  intelligible;  and 
that  in  no  other  country  under  heaven  would  a man  be  expected 
to  marry  a young  lady  from  a blunder  in  his  grammar. 

Baby  may  be  quite  right,  thought  I;  but  one  thing  is  assuredly 
true,  if  I’ll  never  do  for  Galway,  Galway  will  never  do  for  me. 
No,  hang  it!  I have  endured  enough  for  about  two  years.  I 
have  lived  in  banishment,  away  from  society,  supposing  that  at 
least,  if  I isolated  myself  from  the  pleasures  of  the  world,  I was 
exempt  from  its  annoyances;  but  no;  in  the  seclusion  of  my  re- 
mote abode  troubles  found  their  entrance  as  easily  as  elsewhere, 
so  that  I determined  at  once  to  leave  home;  wherefore,  I knew 
not.  If  life  had  few  charms,  it  had  still  fewer  ties  for  me;  if  I 
was  not  bound  by  the  bonds  of  kindred,  I was  untrammeled  by 
their  restraints. 

The  resolution  once  taken,  I burned  to  put  it  into  effect;  and 
so  impatiently  did  I press  forward  as  to  call  forth  more  than  one 
remonstrance  on  the  part  of  Mike,  at  the  pace  we  were  proceed- 
ing at.  As  I neared  home,  the  shrill  but  stirring  sounds  of  drum 
and  fife  met  me;  and,  shortly  after,  a crowd  of  country  people 
filled  the  road.  Supposing  it  some  mere  recruiting  party,  I was 
endeavoring  to  press  on,  when  the  sounds  of  a full  military  band, 
in  the  exhilarating  measure  of  a quick  step,  convinced  me  of  my 
error;  and,  as  I drew  to  one  side  of  the  road,  the  advanced  guard 
of  an  infantry  regiment  came  forward.  The  men’s  faces  were 
flushed,  their  uniforms  dusty  and  travel- stained,  their  knap- 
sacks strapped  firmly  on,  and  their  gait  the  steady  tramp  of  the 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY 


247 


march.  Saluting  the  subaltern,  I asked  if  anything  of  conse- 
quence had  occurred  in  the  south  that  the  troops  were  so  sud- 
denly under  orders.  The  officer  stared  at  me  for  a moment  or 
two  without  speaking;  and  while  a slight  smile  half  curled  his 
lip,  answered: 

Apparently,  sir,  you  seem  very  indifferent  to  military  news, 
otherwise  you  can  scarcely  be  ignorant  of  the  cause  of  our 
route.” 

“ On  the  contrary,”  said  I,  “I  am,  though  a young  man,  an 
old  soldier,  and  feel  most  anxious  about  everything  connected 
with  the  service.” 

‘‘Then  it  is  very  strange,  sir,  you  should  not  have  heard  the 
news.  Bonaparte  has  returned  from  Elba,  has  arrived  at  Paris, 
been  received  with  the  most  overwhelming  enthusiasm,  and  at 
this  moment  the  preparations  for  war  are  resounding  from 
Venice  to  the  Vistula.  All  our  forces,  disposable,  are  on  the 
march  for  embarkation.  The  Duke  of  Wellington  has  taken  the 
command,  and  already  I may  say  the  campaign  has  begun.” 

The  tone  of  enthusiasm  in  which  the  young  officer  spoke,  the 
astounding  intelligence  itself,  contrasting  with  the  apathetic  in- 
dolence of  my  own  life,  made  me  blush  deeply,  as  I muttered 
some  miserable  apology  for  my  ignorance. 

“ And  you  are  now  en  route  F” 

“ For  Fermoy,  from  which  we  march  to  Cove  for  embarkation. 
The  first  battalion  of  our  regiment  sailed  for  the  West  Indies  a 
week  since,  but  a frigate  has  been  sent  after  them  to  bring  them 
back;  and  we  hope  all  to  meet  in  the  Netherlands  before  the 
month  is  over.  But  I must  beg  your  pardon  for  saying  adieu. 
Good-bye,  sir.” 

“Good-bye,  sir;  good-bye,”  said  I,  as,  still  standing  in  the 
road,  I was  so  overwhelmed  with  surprise  that  I could  scarcely 
credit  my  senses. 

A little  further  on  I came  upon  the  main  body  of  the  regiment, 
from  whom  I learned  the  corroboration  of  the  news,  and  also 
the  additional  intelligence  that  Sparks  had  been  ordered  off  with 
his  detachment  early  in  the  morning,  a veteran  battalion  being 
sent  into  garrison  in  the  various  towns  of  the  south  and  west, 

“Do  you  happen  to  know  a Mr.  O’Malley,  sir?”  said  the 
Major,  coming  up  with  a note  in  his  hand. 

“ I beg  to  present  him  to  you,”  said  I,  bowing. 

“ Well,  sir.  Sparks  gave  me  this  note,  which  he  wrote  with  a 
pencil  as  we  crossed  each  other  on  the  road  this  morning.  He 
told  me  you  were  an  old  Fourteenth  man;  but  your  regiment  is 
in  India,  I believe;  at  least  Power  said  they  were  under  orders 
when  we  met  him.” 

“ Fred  Power!  are  you  acquainted  with  him.  Where  is  he 
now,  pray?” 

“ Fred  is  on  the  staff  with  General  Vandeleur — and  is  now  in 
Belgium.” 

“Indeed!”  said  I,  every  moment  increasing  my  surprise  at 
some  new  piece  of  intelligence.  “And  the  Eighty-eighth?” 
said  I recuring  to  my  old  friends  in  that  regiment. 

^ the  Eiirhty-eighth  are  at  Gibraltar^  or  somewhere  in  the 


CHARLES  a MALLET. 


248 

Mediterranean  at  least.  I know  they  are  not  near  enough  to 
open  the  present  campaign  with  us.  But  if  you’d  like  to  hear 
any  more  news  you  must  come  over  to-night.” 

“ Then  ril  certainly  do  so.” 

“ Come  at  six,  then,  and  dine  with  us.” 

Agreed,”  said  I;  “ and  now  good-morning.” 

So  saying,  I once  more  drove  on;  my  head  full  of  all  that  I 
had  been  hearing,  and  my  heart  bursting  with  eagerness  to  join 
the  gallant  fellows  now  home  for  the  campaign. 


CHAPTER  CXV. 

BRUSSELS. 

I MUST  not  protract  a tale,  already  far  too  long,  by  the  recital 
of  my  acquaintance  with  the  gallant  Twenty- sixth.  It  is  suflEi- 
cient  that  I should  say  that,  having  given  Mike  orders  to  fol- 
low me  to  Gove,  I joined  the  regiment  on  their  march,  and  ac- 
companied them  to  Cork.  Every  hour  of  each  day  brought  us 
in  news  of  moment  and  importance;  and  amid  all  the  stirring 
preparations  for  the  war,  the  account  of  the  splendid  spectacle 
of  the  camp  de  Mai  burst  upon  astonished  Europe,  and  the 
intelligence  spread  far  and  near;  that  the  enthusiasm  of  France 
nevfer  rose  higher  in  favor  of  the  Emperor;  and,  while  the  whole 
world  prepared  for  the  deadly  combat,  Napoleon  surpassed  even 
himself,  by  the  magnificent  conceptions  for  the  coming  conflict; 
and  the  stupendous  nature  of  those  plans  by  which  he  resolved 
on  resisting  combined  and  united  Europe. 

While  our  admiration  and  wonder  of  the  mighty  spirit  that 
ruled  the  destinies  of  the  Continent  rose  high,  so  did  our  own 
ardent  and  burning  desire  for  the  day  when  the  open  fleld  of 
fight  should  place  us  once  more  in  front  of  each  other. 

Every  hard-fought  engagement  of  the  Spanish  war  was 
thought  of  and  talked  over;  from  Talavera  to  Toulouse,  all  was 
remembered;  and,  while  among  the  old  Peninsulars  the  military 
ardor  was  so  universally  displayed,  among  the  regiments  who 
had  not  shared  the  glories  of  Spain  and  Portugal,  an  equal,  per- 
haps a greater  impulse  was  created  for  the  approaching  cam- 
paign. 

When  we  arrived  at  Cork,  the  scene  of  bustle  and  excitement 
exceeded  anything  I ever  witnessed;  troops  were  mustering  in 
every  quarter;  regiments  arriving  and  embarking;  fresh  bodies 
of  men  pouring  in;  drills,  parades,  and  inspections  going  for- 
ward; arms,  ammunition,  and  military  stores  distributing;  and 
amid  all,  a spirit  of  burning  enthusiasm  animating  every  rank, 
for  the  approaching  glory  of  the  newly -arisen  war. 

While  thus  each  was  full  of  his  own  hopes  and  expectations, 
Palone  felt  depressed  and  down-hearted.  My  military  caste  was 
lost  to  me  forever;  my  regiment  many,  many  a mile  from  the 
scene  of  the  coming  strife;  though  young,  I felt  like  one  already 
old  and  by-gone.  The  last-joined  ensign  seemed,  in  his  glowing 
aspiration,  a better  soldier  than  I,  as,  sad  and  dispirited,  I wan- 
dered through  the  busy  crowds,  surveying  with  curious  eye 
«fich  gallant  horseman  as  he  rode  proudly  pastk  What  wa« 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


24i# 

wealth  and  fortune  to  me  ? What  had  they  ever  been  compared 
with  all  they  cost  me  ? — ^the  abandonment  of  the  career  I loved 
— the  path  in  life  I sought  and  panted  for.  Day  after  day  I 
lingered  on,  watching  with  beating  heart  each  detachment  as 
they  left  the  shore;  and  when  their  parting  cheer  rang  high 
above  the  breeze,  turned  sadly  back  to  mourn  over  a life  that 
had  failed  in  its  promise,  and  an  existence  now  shorn  of  its 
employment. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  3d  of  June,  that  I was  slowly 
wending  my  way  back  toward  the  hotel — ^latterly  I had  refused 
all  invitations  to  dine  at  the  mess — and  by  a strange  spirit  of 
contradiction,  while  I avoided  society,  could  yet  not  tear  myself 
away  from  the  spot  where  every  remembrance  of  my  past  life 
was  daily  imbittered  by  the  scenes  around  me.  But  so  it  was; 
the  movement  of  the  troops,  their  reviews,  their  arrivals  and 
departures,  possessed  the  most  thrilling  interest  for  me;  while 
I could  not  endure  to  hear  the  mention  of  those  high  hopes 
and  glorious  vows  each  brave  feUow  muttered. 

It  was,  as  I remember,  on  the  evening  of  the  3d  of  June,  I 
entered  my  hotel,  lower  in  spirits  even  than  usual;  the  bugles 
of  the  gallant  Seventy* first,  as  they  dropped  down  with  the 
tide,  played  a well-known  march  I had  heard  the  night  before 
Talavera;  all  my  bold  and  hardy  days  came  rushing  madly  to 
my  mind;  and  my  present  life  seemed  no  longer  endurable. 
The  last  army  list  and  the  newspapers  lay  on  my  table,  and  I 
turned  to  read  the  latest  promotions  with  that  feeling  of  bitter- 
ness by  which  an  unhappy  man  loves  to  tamper  with  his  misery. 

Almost  the  first  paragraph  I threw  my  eyes  upon,  ran  thus: 

“ OSTEND,  May  24th. — The  Vixen  roman  sloop-of-war,  which 
arrived  oJff  our  port  this  morning,  brought,  among  several  other 
ofldcers  of  inferior  note.  Lieutenant- Genera  Sir  George  Dash  wood, 
appointed  as  Assistant- Adjutant-General  on  the  staff  of  His 
Grace  the  Duke  of  Wellington;  the  gallant  General  was  accom- 
panied by  his  lovely  and  accomplished  daughter,  and  his 
military  secretary  and  aid-de-camp.  Major  Hammersly,  of  the 
Second  Life-Guards.  They  partook  of  a hurried  dejeuner  with 
the  burgomaster,  and  left  immediately  after  for  Brussels.” 

Twice  I read  this  over,  while  a burning  hot  sensation  settled 
upon  my  throat  and  temples.  So  Hammersly  still  persists — he 
still  hopes — and  what  then — what  can  it  be  to  me  ? — my  pros- 
pects have  long  since  faded  and  vanished;  doubtless,  ere  this,  I 
am  as  much  forgotten  as  though  we  had  never  met;  would  that 
we  had  never  met;  would  that  we  never  had!  I threw  up  the 
window-sash;  a light  breeze  was  gently  stirring,  and,  as  it 
fanned  my  hot  and  bursting  head,  I felt  cool  and  relieved.  Some 
soldiers  were  talking  beneath  the  window,  and  among  them  I 
recognized  Mike’s  voice. 

“ And  so  you  sail  at  daybreak,  sergeant  ?” 

“Yes,  Mr.  Free;  we  have  our  orders  to  be  on  board  before  the 
flood-tide;  the  Thunderer  drops  down  the  harbor  to-night,  and 
we  are  merely  here  to  collect  our  stragglers,” 

“ Faix,  it’s  little  I thought  I’d  ever  envy  a soldier  any  more; 
but  some  J wish  I was  going  wltli 


250 


CHARLES  OMALLEY 


‘‘Nothing  easier,  Mike,”  said  another,  laughing. 

“ Oh,  true  for  you,  but  that’s  not  the  way  I’d  like  to  do  it;  If 
my  master,  now,  would  just  get  over  his  low  spirits,  and  spake 
a word  to  the  Duke  of  York,  devil  a doubt  but  £e’d  give  him  his 
commission  back  again,  and  then  one  might  go  in  comfort.” 

Your  master  likes  his  feather  pillow  better  than  a mossy 
stone  under  his  head,  I’m  thinking;  and  he  ain’t  far  wrong 
either.” 

“ Ye’re  out  there,  neighbor;  it’s  himseK  cares  as  little  for 
hardship  as  any  one  of  you;  and  sure  it’s  not  becoming  me  to 
say  it,  but  the  best  blood  and  the  best  bred  was  always  last  to 
give  in- for  either  cold  or  hunger,  ay,  or  even  complain  of  it.” 

Mike’s  few  words  shot  upon  me  a new  and  sudden  conviction 
— what  was  to  prevent  my  joining  once  more  ? Obvious  as 
such  a thought  now  was,  yet  never  did  it  present  itself  so 
palpably.  So  habituated  does  the  mind  become  to  a certain 
train  of  reasoning,  framing  its  convictions  according  to  one  pre- 
conceived plan,  and  making  every  fact  and  every  circumstance 
concur  in  strengthening  what  often  may  be  but  a prejudice — that 
the  absence  of  the  old  Fourteenth  in  India;  the  sale  of  my  com- 
mission; the  want  of  rank  in  the  service,  all  seemed  to  present 
an  insurmountable  barrier  to  my  re-entering  the  army.  A few 
chance  words  now  changed  all  this,  and  1 saw  that,  as  a volun- 
teer, at  least,  the  path  of  glory  was  still  open ; and  the  thought 
was  no  sooner  conceived  than  the  resolve  to  execute  it.  While, 
therefore,  I walked  hurriedly  up  and  down,  devising,  planning, 
plotting  and  contriving,  each  instant  I would  stop  to  ask  myself 
how  it  happened  I had  not  determined  on  this  before. 

As  I summoned  Mike  before  me,  I could  not  repress  a feeling 
of  false  shame  as  I remembered  how  suddenly  so  natural  a re- 
solve must  seem  to  have  been  adopted;  and  it  was  with  some- 
what of  hesitation  that  I opened  the  conversation. 

“ And  so,  sir,  you  are  going,  after  all,  long  life  to  you;  but  I 
never  doubted  it;  sure,  you  wouldn’t  be  your  father  s son,  and 
not  join  divarsion  when  there  was  any  going.” 

The  poor  fellow’s  eyes  brightened  up,  his  look  gladdened,  and 
before  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  I heard  his  loud  cheer 
of  delight  that  once  more  we  were  off  to  the  wars. 

The  packet  sailed  for  Liverpool  the  next  morning;  by  it  we 
took  our  passage,  and  on  the-  third  morning  I found  myself  in 
the  waiting-room  at  the  Horse  Guards,  expecting  the  moment 
of  his  Royal  Highness’s  arrival;  my  determination  being  to  serve 
as  a volunteer  in  any  regiment  the  Duke  might  suggest,  until 
such  a time  as  a prospect  presented  itself  of  entering  the  service 
as  a subaltern. 

The  room  was  crowded  by  officers  of  every  rank  and  arm  in 
the  service;  the  old  gray-headed  general  of  division;  the  tall, 
stout-looking  captain  of  infantry;  the  thin  and  boyish  figure  of 
the  gazetted  cornet,  were  all  there;  every  accent,  every  look 
that  marks  each  trait  of  national  distinction  in  the  empire,  had 
its  representative;  the  reserved  and  distant  Scotc.hman;  the  gay, 
laughing,  exuberant  Patlander;  the  dark-eyed  and  dark-browed 
North  Sriton,  collected  in  groups,  talked  eagerly  together; 


CBARLES  O^MALLEY. 


m 


while  every  instant,  as  some  new  arrival  would  enter,  all  eyes 
would  turn  to  the  spot,  in  eager  expectation  of  the  Duke’s  com- 
ing. At  last  the  clash  of  arms,  as  the  guard  turned  out,  ap- 
prised us  of  his  approach,  and  we  had  scarcely  time  to  stand  up 
and  stop  the  buzz  of  voices,  when  the  door  opened,  and  an  jid- 
de- camp  proclaimed  in  a full  tone:  ‘'His Royal  Highness,  the 
Commander-in-Chie^ . ” 

Bowing  courteously  on  every  side,  he  advanced  through  the 
crowd,  turning  his  rapid  and  piercing  look  here  and  there 
through  the  room,  while  with  that  tact,  the  essential  gift  of  his 
family,  he  recognized  each  person  by  his  name,  directing  from 
one  to  the  other  some  passing  observation. 

“Ah,  Sir  George  Cockburn,  how  d’ye  do!  Your  son’s  ap- 
pointment is  made  out.  Major  Conyers,  that  application  shall 
be  looked  to.  Forbes,  you  must  explain,  that  I cannot  possibly 
put  men  in  the  regiment  of  their  choice — the  service  is  the  first 

thing.  Lord  L , your  memorial  is  before  the  Prince  Regent 

— the  cavalry  command  will,  I believe,  however,  include  your 
name.” 

While  he  spoke  thus,  he  approached  the  place  where  I was 
standing,  when  suddenly  checking  himself,  he  looked  at  me  for 
a moment  somewhat  sternly.  “Why  not  in  uniform,  sir?” 

“ Your  Royal  Highness ” 

“ But,  sir,”  interrupted  the  Duke,  “ why — why,  may  I beg  to 

know,  have  you But  I’m  speaking  to  Captain  O’Malley,  if 

I mistake  not.” 

“I  held  that  rank,  sir,  once,  but  family  necessities  compelled 
me  to  sell  out;  I have  now  no  commission  in  the  service,  but  am 
come  to  beseech  your  Royal  Highness’s  permission  to  serve  as  a 
volunteer.” 

“ As  a volunteer,  eh  ? a volunteer? — come,  that’s  right;  I like 
that;  but  still  we  want  such  fellows  as  you;  the  man  of  Ciudad 

Rodrigo?  Yes,  my  Lord  L , this  is  one  of  the  stormers, 

fought  his  way  through  the  trench,  among  the  first;  must  not 
be  neglected.  Hold  yourself  in  readiness,  Captain — hang  it,  I 
was  forgetting — Mr.  O’Malley,  I mean — hold  yourself  in  readi- 
ness for  a staff  appointment.  Smithson,  take  a note  of  this.” 
So  saying,  he  wended  on,  and  I found  myself  in  the  street,  with 
a heart  bounding  with  delight,  and  a step  proud  as  an  emperor’s. 

With  such  rapidity  the  events  of  my  life  now  followed  one 
upon  the  other,  that  I could  take  no  note  of  time  as  it  passed. 
On  the  fourth  day  after  my  conversation  with  the  Duke,  I found 
myself  in  Brussels.  As  yet,  I heard  nothing  of  the  appointment, 
nor  was  I gazetted  to  any  regiment  or  any  situation  on  the  staff. 
It  was  strange  enough,  too,  I met  but  few  of  my  old  associates, 
and  not  one  of  those  with  whom  I had  been  most  intimate  in  my 
Peninsular  career;  but  it  so  chanced  that  very  many  of  the  reg- 
iments who  most  distinguished  themselves  in  the  Spanish  cam- 
paigns, at  the  peace  of  1814,  were  sent  on  foreign  service.  My 
old  friend  Power  was,  I learned,  quartered  at  Courtril,  and  as  I 
was  perfectly  at  liberty  to  dispose  of  my  movements  at  present, 
I resolved  to  visit  him  there. 

It  was  a beautiful  evening  on  the  12th  of  June;  I had  been  in- 


253 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


quiring  concerning  post-horses  for  my  journey,  and,  was  return- 
ing slowly  through  the  park.  The  hour  was  late,  near  midnight, 
but  a pale  moonlight,  a calm  unruffled  air,  and,  stronger  induce* 
ment  still,  the  song  of  the  nightingales  that  abound  in  this  place, 
prevailed  on  many  of  the  loungers  to  prolong  their  stay;  and  so, 
frdin  many  a shady  walk  and  tangled  arbor,  the  clanlc  of  a saber 
would  strike  upon  the  ear,  or  the  low,  soft  voice  of  a woman 
would  mingle  its  dulcet  sound  with  the  deep  tones  of  her  com- 
panion. I wandered  on,  thoughtful  and  alone;  my  mind  preoccu- 
pied so  completely  with  the  mighty  events  passing  before  me,  I 
totally  forgot  my  own  humble  career,  and  the  circumstances  of  my 
fortune.  As  I turned  into  an  alley  which  leads  from  the  Great 
Walk  toward  the  palace  of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  I found  my 
path  obstructed  by  three  persons  who  were  walking  slowly  along 
in  front  of  me.  I was,  as  I have  mentioned,  deeply  absorbed  in 
thought,  so  that  I found  myself  close  behind  them  before  I was 
aware  of  their  presence.  Two  of  the  party  were  in  uniform,  and, 
by  their  plumes,  upon  which  a passing  ray  of  moonlight  flickered. 
I could  detect  they  were  general  officers;  the  third  was  a lady. 
Unable  to  pass  them,  and  unwilling  to  turn  back,  I was  unavoid- 
ably compelled  to  follow,  and,  however  unwilling,  to  overhear 
somewhat  of  their  conversation. 

“ You  mistake,  George,  you  mistake;  depend  upon  it  this  will 
be  no  lengthened  campaign;  victory  will  soon  decide  for  one  side 
or  the  other.  If  Napoleon  beat  the  Prussians  one  day,  and  beat 
us  the  next,  the  German  States  will  rally  to  his  standard,  and 
all  the  Confederation  of  the  Ehine  will  spring  up  once  more,  in 
all  the  plenitude  of  its  power.  The  champ  de  Mai  has  shown 
the  enthusiasm  of  France  for  their  emperor.  Louis  XVII.  fled 
from  his  capital  with  few  to  follow,  and  none  to  say  ‘ God  bless 
him!’  the  warlike  spirit  of  the  nation  is  roused  again;  the  inter- 
val c»f  peace,  too  short  to  teach  habits  of  patient  and  enduring 
industry,  is  yet  sufficient  to  whet  the  appetite  for  carnage,  and 
nothing  was  wanting,  save  the  presence  of  Napoleon  alone,  to 
restore  all  the  brilliant  delusions  and  intoxicating  splendors  of 
the  empire.” 

I confess,”  said  the  other,  “I  take  a very  different  view 
from  yours  in  this  matter;  to  me  it  seems  that  France  is  as  tired 
of  battles  as  of  the  Bourbons ” 

I heard  no  more;  for,  though  the  speaker  continued,  a misfcy 
confusion  passed  across  my  mind.  The  tones  of  his  voice,  well 
remembered  as  they  were  by  me,  left  me  unable  to  think;  and, 
as  I stood  motionless  on  the  spot,  I muttered,  half  aloud,  “ Sir 
George  Dashwood.”  It  was  he,  indeed,  and  she  who  leaned  upon 
his  arm  could  be  no  other  than  Lucy  herself.  I know  not  how 
it  was;  for  many  a long  month  I had  schooled  my  heart  and 
taught  myself  to  believe  that  time  had  dulled  the  deep  impres- 
sion she  had  made  upon  me;  and  that,  were  we  to  meet  again,  it 
would  be  with  more  sorrow  on  my  part,  for  my  broken  dream  of 
happiness,  than  of  attachment  and  affection  for  her  who  inspired 
it;  but  now,  scarcely  was  I near  her;  I had  not  gazed  upon  her 
looks;  I had  not  even  heard  her  voice:  and  yet,  in  all  their  force, 
came  back  the  early  passages  of  my  love,  and,  as  her  foot- fall 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


m 


sounded  gently  upon  the  ground,  my  heart  beat  scarce  less  audi- 
bly. Alas!  I could  no  longer  disguise  from  myself  the  avowal 
that  she  it  was,  and  she  only,  who  implanted  in  my  heart  the 
thiist  for  distinction;  and  the  moment  was  ever  present  to  my 
mind  in  which,  as  she  threw  her  arms  around  her  father’s  neck, 
she  muttered,  “ Oh,  why  not  a soldier:” 

As  I thus  reflected,  an  ofiicer  in  full  dress  passed  me  hurriedly, 
and  taking  off  his  hat  as  he  came  up  with  the  party  before  me, 
bowed  obsequiously. 

“My  Lord , I believe,  and  Sir  George  Dash  wood.”  They 

replied  by  a bow.  “Sir  Thomas  Picton  wishes  to  speak  with 
you  both  for  a moment;  he  is  standing  beside  the  ‘ Basin.’  If 
you  will  permit ” said  iie,  looking  toward  Lucy. 

“Thank*  you,  sir,”  said  Sir  George;  “if  you  will  have  the 
goodness  to  accompany  us,  my  daughter  will  wait  our  coming 
here.  Sit  down,  Lucy,  we  shall  not  be  long  away.” 

The  next  moment  she  was  alone;  the  last  echoes  of  their  re- 
tiring footsteps  had  died  away  in  the  grassy  walk,  and  in  the 
calm  and  death-like  stillness  I could  hear  every  rustle  of  her  silk 
dress;  the  moonlight  fell  in  fitful  straggling  gleams  between  the 
leafy  branches,  and  showed  me  her  countenance,  pale  as  marble; 
her  eyes  were  upturned  slightly;  her  brown  hair,  divided  upon 
her  fair  forehead,  sparkled  with  a wreath  of  brilliants,  which 
heightened  the  lustrous  effect  of  her  calm  beauty;  and  now  I 
could  perceive  her  dress  bespoke  that  she  had  been  at  some  of 
the  splendid  entertainments  which  followed  day  after  day  in  the 
busy  capital. 

Thus  I stood  within  a few  paces  of  Tier,  to  be  near  whom,  a few 
hours  before,  I would  willingly  have  given  all  I possessed  in  the 
world,  and  yet  now,  a barrier,  far  more  insurmountable  than 
time  and  space,  intervened  between  us;  still  it  seemed  as  though 
fortune  had  presented  this  incident,  as  a last  farewell  between 
us.  Why  should  I not  take  advantage  of  it  ? Why  should  I not 
seize  the  only  opportunity  that  might  ever  occur  of  rescuing 
myself  from  the  apparent  load  of  ingratitude  that  weighed  upon 
my  memory  ? I felt,  in  the  cold  despair  of  my  heart,  that  I 
could  have  no  hold  upon  her  affection;  but  a pride,  scarce  less 
strong  than  the  attachment  that  gave  rise  to  it,  urged  me  to 
speak.  By  one  violent  effort  I summoned  up  my  courage,  and 
while  I was  resolved  to  limit  the  few  words  I should  say  merely 
to  my  vindication,  I prepared  to  advance.  Just  at  this  instant, 
however,  a shadow  crossed  the  path;  a rustling  sound  was  heard 
among  the  branches,  and  the  tall  figure  of  a.  man  in  a dragoon 
cloak  stood  before  me.  Lucy  turned  suddenly  at  the  sound;  but 
scarcely  had  her  eyes  been  bent  in  the  direction,  when,  throwing 
off  his  cloak,  he  sprang  forward  and  dropped  on  one  knee  at  her 
feet.  All  my  feeling  of  shame  at  the  part  I was  performing  was 
now  succeeded  by  a sense  of  savage  and  revengeful  hatred.  It 
was  enough  that  I should  be  brought  to  look  upon  her  whom  I 
had  lost  forever,  without  the  added  bitterness  of  witnessing  her 
preference  for  a rival.  The  whirlwind  passion  of  my  brain 
stunned  and  stupefied  me.  Unconsciously  I drew  my  sword 
from  my  scabbard,  and  it  was  only  as  the  pale  li^ht  fell  upon 


m CHARLES  SMALLEY. 

the  keen  blade,  that  the  thought  flashed  across  me,  What  cotuUl 
I mean  to  do?'’ 

“No,  Hammersly” — it  was  he  indeed — said  she,  “it  is  un- 
kind, it  is  unfair;  nay,  it  is  unmanly,  to  press  me  thus;  I would 
not  pain  you,  were  it  not  that  in  sparing  you  now  I should  en- 
tail deeper  injury  upon  you  hereafter;  ask  me  to  be  your  sister — 
your  friend;  ask  me  to  feel  proudly  in  your  triumphs — to  glory 
in  your  success;  all  this  do  I feel;  but,  oh!  I beseech  you,  as  you 
value  your  happiness— -as  you  prize  mine — ask  me  no  more  than 
this.” 

There  was  a pause  of  some  seconds;  and  at  length  the  low 
tones  of  a man’s  voice,  broken  and  uncertain  in  their  utterance, 
said: 

“ I know  it — I feel  it — my  heart  never  bade  me  hope— and 
now — ’tis  over.” 

He  stood  up  as  he  spoke,  and  while  he  threw  the  white  folds 
of  his  mantle  round  him,  a gleam  of  light  fell  upon  his  features: 
they  were  pale  as  death;  two  dark  circles  surrounded  his  sunken 
eyes,  and  his  bloodless  lip  looked  still  more  ghastly,  from  the 
dark  mustache  that  dropped  above  it. 

“ Fare  ye  well,”  said  he,  slowly,  as  he  crossed  his  arms  sadly 
upon  his  breast,  “ I will  not  pain  you  more.” 

“ Oh,  go  not  thus  from  me,”  said  she,  as  her  voice  became 
tremulous  with  emotion;  “ do  not  add  to  the  sorrow’  that  weighs 
upon  my  heart.  I cannot,  indeed,  I cannot,  be  other  than  lam, 
and  I do  but  hate  myself,  to  think  that  I cannot  give  my  love 

where  I have  given  all  my  esteem.  If  time ” but  before  she 

could  continue  further,  the  noise  of  approaching  footsteps  was 
heard,  and  the  voice  of  Sir  George,  as  he  came  near.  Hammer- 
sly  disappeared  at  once,  and  Lucy,  with  rapid  steps,  advanced 
to  meet  her  father,  while  I remained  riveted  upon  the  spot. 
What  a torrent  of  emotions  then  rushed  upon  my  heart!  what 
hopes,  long  dead  or  dying,  sprang  up  to  life  again!  what  visions 
of  long- abandoned  happiness  flitted  before  me!  Could  it  be 
then  ? dare  I trust  myself  to  think  of  it,  that  Lucy  cared  for  me  ? 
The  thought  was  maddening;  wdth  a bounding  sense  of  ecstasy 
I dashed  across  the  park,  resolving,  at  all  hazards,  to  risk  every- 
thing upon  the  chance,  and  wait  the  next  morning  upon  Sir 
George  Dash  wood.  As  I thought  thus,  I reached  my  hotel,  where 
1 found  Mike  in  waiting  with  a letter.  As  I walked  toward  the 
lamp  in  the  porte-cochere,  my  eye  fell  upon  the  address;  it  was 
General  Dash  wood's  hand;  I tore  it  open,  and  read  as  follows: 

“ Dear  Sir, — Circumstances  into  which  you  will  excuse  me 
entering  at  present,  having  placed  an  insurmountable  barrier  to 
our  former  terms  of  intimacy,  you  will,  I trust,  excuse  me  de- 
clining the  honor  of  any  nearer  acquaintance,  and  also  forgive 
the  liberty  I take  of  informing  you  of  it,  which  step,  however 
unpleasant  to  my  feelings,  will  save  us  both  the  great  pain  of  a 
meeting. 

“ I have  only  this  moment  lieard  of  your  arrival  in  Brussels, 
and  take  thus  the  earliest  opportunity  of  communicating  with 
you* 


CHAHLES  aMALLET. 


255 


•‘With  every  assurance  of  my  respect  for  you  personally,  and 
an  earnest  desire  to  serve  you  in  your  military  career,  I beg  to 
remain,  Very  faithfully  yours, 

“ George  Dashwood.” 

“Another  note,  sir,’’  said  Mike,  as  he  thrust  into  my  uncon* 
scious  hands  a letter  he  had  just  received  from  an  orderly. 

Stunned,  half  stupefied,  I broke  the  seal.  The  contents  were 
but  these  lines: 

“ Sir,— I have  the  honor  to  inform  you  that  Sir  Thomas  Pic- 
ton  has  appointed  you  an  extra  aid-de-camp  on  his  personal 
staff.  You  will,  therefore,  present  yourself  to-morrow  morning 
at  the  Adjutant -General’s  office  to  receive  your  appointment  and 
instructions.  I have  the  honor  to  be,  &c., 

“G.  Fitzroy.” 

Crushing  the  two  letters  in  my  fevered  hand,  I retired  to  my 
room,  and  threw  myself,  dressed  as  I was,  upon  my  bed.  Sleep, 
that  seems  to  visit  us  in  the  saddest  as  in  the  happiest  times  of 
our  existence,  came  over  me,  and  I did  not  wake  until  the  bugles 
of  the  Ninety-fifth  were  sounding  the  reveille  through  the  park, 
and  the  bright  gleams  of  the  morning  sun  were  peering  through 
the  window. 


CHAPTER  CXVI. 

AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE. 

•‘  Mr.  O’Malley,”  said  a voice,  as  my  door  opened,  and  an  offi- 
cer in  undress  entered.  “ Mr.  O’Malley,  I believe  you  received 
your  appointment  last  night  on  General  Picton’s  staff  ?” 

I bowed  in  reply,  as  he  resumed: 

“ Sir  Thomas  desires  you  to  proceed  to  Courtrai  with  these  dis- 
patches in  all  haste.  I doh’t  Enow  if  you  are  well  mounted,  but 
I recommend  you,  in  any  case,  not  to  spare  your  cattle.” 

So  saying,  he  wished  me  a good  morning,  and  left  me  in  a 
state  of  no  small  doubt  and  difficulty  to  my  reflections.  What 
the  deuce  was  I to  do?  I had  no  horse;  I knew  not  where  to 
find  one.  What  uniform  should  I wear  ? for,  although  appoint- 
ed on  the  staff,  I was  not  gazetted  to  any  regiment,  that  I knew 
of,  and  hitherto  had  been  wearing  an  undress  frock  and  a for- 
aging cap,  for  I could  not  bring  myself  to  appear  as  a civilian 
among  so  many  military  acquaintances.  No  time  was,  however, 
to  be  lost;  so  I proceeded  to  put  on  my  old  Fourteenth  uniform, 
wondering  whether  my  costume  might  not  cost  me  a reprimand 
in  the  very  outset  of  my  career.  Meanwhile  I dispatched  Mike 
to  see  after  a horse,  caring  little  for  the  time,  the  merits  or  the 
price  of  the  animal,  provided  he  served  my  present  purpose. 

In  less  than  twenty  minutes  my  worthy  follower  appeared  be- 
neath my  window,  surrounded  by  a considerable  mob,  who 
seemed  to  take  no  small  interest  in  the  proceedings. 

“ What  the  deuce  is  the  matter?”  cried  T,  as  I opened  the 
sash  and  looked  out. 

••  Mighty  little’s  the  matter,  your  honor;  it’s  the  savages  here, 


m 


CHARLES  OMALLET. 


that’s  admiring  my  horsemanship,”  said  Mike,  as  he  belabored  a 
tall,  scraggy-looking  mule  with  a stick  which  bore  an  uncommon 
resemblance  to  a broom-handle. 

“ What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  that  beast?”  said  I.  You 
surely  don’t  expect  me  to  ride  a mule  to  Courtrai  ?” 

“ Faith,  and  if  you  don't  you  are  likely  to  walk  the  journey, 
for  there  isn’t  a horse  to  be  had  for  Jove  or  money  in  the  town; 
but  I am  told  that  Mr.  Marsden  is  coming  up  to-morrow  with 
plenty,  so  that  you  may  as  well  take  the  journey  out  of  the  soft 
horns  as  spoil  a better;  and,  if  he  only  makes  as  good  use  of  his 
fore-legs  as  he  does  of  the  hind  ones,  he’ll  think  little  of  the 
road.” 

A vicious  lash  out  behind  served  in  a moment  to  corroborate 
Mike's  assertion,  and  to  scatter  the  crowd  on  every  side. 

However  indisposed  to  exhibit  myself  with  such  a turn-out, 
my  time  did  not  admit  of  any  delay ; and  so,  arming  myself  with 
my  dispatches,  and  having  procured  the  necessary  information 
as  to  the  road,  I set  out  from  the  Bellevue,  amid  an  ill-sup- 
pressed titter  of  merriment  from  the  mob,  which  nothing  but 
fear  of  Mike  and  his  broomstick  prevented  becoming  a regular 
shout  of  laughter. 

It  was  near  nightfall  as,  tired  and  weary  of  the  road,  I entered 
the  little  village  of  Halle.  All  was  silent  and  noiseless  in  the 
deserted  streets;  not  a lamp  threw  its  glare  upon  the  pavement, 
nor  even  a solitary  candle  flickered  through  the  casement. 
Unlike  a town  garrisoned  by  troops,  neither  sentry  nor  outpost 
was  to  be  met  wdth;  nothing  gave  evidence  that  the  place  was 
held  by  a large  body  of  men ; and  I could  not  help  feeling  struck, 
as  the  footsteps  of  my  mule  were  echoed  along  the  causeway, 
with  the  silence  almost  of  desolation  around  me.  By  the  creak- 
ing of  a sign,  as  it  swung  mournfully  to  and  fro,  I was  directed 
to  the  door  of  the  village  inn,  where,  dismounting,  I knocked 
for  some  moments,  but  without  success.  At  length,  when  I had 
made  an  uproar  sufiicient  to  alarm  £he  entire  village,  the  case- 
ment above  the  door  slowly  opened,  and  a head  enveloped  in  a 
huge  cotton  night-cap — so,  at  least,  it  appeared  to  me,  from  the 
size — protruded  itself.  After  muttering  a curse,  in  about  the 
most  barbarous  French  I ever  heard,  he  asked  me  what  I wanted 
there;  to  which  I replied  most  nationally  by  asking,  in  return, 
where  the  British  dragoons  were  quartered? 

“ They  have  left  for  Nivelle,  this  morning,  to  join  some  regi- 
ments of  your  own  country.” 

“Ah,  ah,”  thought  I,  “he  mistakes  me  for  a Brunswicker;” 
to  which,  by  the  uncertain  light,  my  uniform  gave  me  some  re- 
semblance. As  it  was  now  impossible  for  me  to  proceed  fur- 
ther, I begged  to  ask  where  I could  procure  accommodation 
for  the  night. 

“At  the  burgomaster’s;  turn  to  your  left  at  the  end  of  this 
street,  and  you  will  soon  And  it.  They  have  got  some  English 
officers  there,  who,  I believe  in  my  soul,  never  sleep.” 

This  was,  at  least,  pleasant  intelligence,  and  promised  a bet- 
ter termination  to  my  journey  than  I had  begun  to  hope  for;  so 
wishing  my  friend  a good-night,  to  which  he  willingly  respond- 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


257 


ed,  I resumed  my  way  down  the  street.  As  he  closed  the  win- 
dow, once  more  leaving  me  to  my  own  reflections,  I began  to 
wonder  within  myself  to  what  arm  of  the  service  belonged  these 
officers  to  whose  convivial  gifts  he  bore  testimony.  As  I turn- 
ed the  corner  of  the  street,  I soon  discovered  the  correctness  of 
his  information.  A broad  glare  of  light  stretched  across  the 
entire  pavement  from  a large  house  with  a clumsy  stone  portico 
before  it.  On  coming  nearer,  the  sound  of  voices,  the  roar  of 
laughter,  the  shouts  of  merriment  that  issued  forth,  plainly  be- 
spoke that  a jovial  party  were  seated  within.  The  half  shutter 
which  closed  the  lower  part  of  the  windows  prevented  my 
obtaining  a view  of  the  proceedings;  but  having  cautiously 
approached  the  casement,  I managed  to  creep  on  the  window- 
sill, and  look  into  the  room. 

There  the  scene  was  certainly  a curious  one.  Around  a large 
table  sat  a party  of  some  twenty  persons;  the  singularity  of 
whose  appearance  may  be  conjectured,  when  I mention  that 
all  those  who  appeared  to  be  British  officers  were  dressed  in  the 
robes  of  the  echevins  (or  aldermen)  of  the  village;  while  some 
others,  whose  looks  bespoke  them  as  sturdy  Flemings,  sported 
the  cocked  hats  and  cavalry  helmets  of  their  associates.  He 
who  appeared  the  ruler  of  the  feast  sat  with  his  back  toward  me, 
and  wore,  in  addition  to  the  dress  of  burgomaster,  a herald’s 
tabard,  which  gave  him  something  the  air  of  a grotesque  screen 
at  its  potations.  A huge  fire  blazed  upon  the  ample  hearth, 
before  which  were  spread  several  staff  uniforms,  whose  drab- 
bled and  soaked  appearance  denoted  the  reason  of  the  party’s 
change  of  habiliments.  Every  imaginable  species  of  drinking- 
vessel  figured  upon  the  board,  from  the  rich  flagon  of  chased 
silver  to  the  humble  cruche  we  see  in  a Tenier’s  picture.  As 
well  as  I could  hear,  the  language  of  the  company  seemed  to 
be  French,  or,  at  least,  such  an  imitation  of  that  language 
which  served  as  a species  of  neutral  territory  for  both  parties 
to  meet  in. 

He  of  dhe  tabard  spoke  louder  than  the  others;  and  although, 
fromj  the  execrable  endeavors  he  made  to  express  himself  in 
French,  his  natural  voice  was  much  altered,  there  was  yet 
something  in  his  accents  which  seemed  perfectly  familiar 
to  me. 

“ MosheerV Abbey, said  he,  placing  his  arm  familiarly  on  the 
shoulder  of  a portly  personage,  whose  shaven  crown  strangely 
contrasted  with  a pair  of  corked  moustachios.  Monsieur 
V Abbey  sommesfreres  et  moi  sevez-vous,  suis  ‘ eveque  ’ — ’pon  my  life 
it’s  true;  I might  have  been  bishop  of  Saragossa,  if  I only  con- 
sented to  leave  the  Twenty-third.  Jes  suis  bong  Catholique, 
Lord  bless  you,  if  you  saw  how  I loved  the  nunneries  in  Spain. 
Jai  ires  jolly  souvenirs  of  those  nunneries;  a goodly  company  of 
little  silver  saints;  and  this  waistcoat  you  s:Q=-^ong  gilet — 
was  a satin  petticoat  in  our  Lady  of  Loretto.” 

Need  I say  that  before  this  speech  was  concluded,  I had  recog- 
nized in  the  speaker  nobody  but  that  inveterate  old  villain 
Monsoon  himself. 

“ Permettez  votive  excellence^^^  said  a hale,  jolly-looking  person* 


m CHARLES  O^MALLEY 

age  on  his  left,  as  he  filled  the  Major's  goblet  with  obsequious 
politeness. 

“ Bong  engfong,^^  replied  Monsoon,  tapping  him  familiarly  on 
the  head.  “ Burgomaster,  you  are  a trump,  and  when  I get  my 
promotion,  I'll  make  you  prefect  in  a wine  district.  Pass  the 
lush,  and  don’t  look  sleepy.  ‘Drowsiness,’  says  Solomon, 
‘ clothes  a man  in  rags;’  and  no  one  knew  the  world  better  than 
Solomon.  Don’t  you  be  laughing,  you  raw  boys.  Never  mind 
them,  ‘ abbey;’  ils  sont  petits  garcons — fags  from  Eton  and  Har- 
row; better  judges  of  mutton  broth  than  sherry  negus.” 

“I  say,  Major,  you  are  forgetting  this  song  you  promised 
us.” 

“Yes,  yes,”  said  several  voices  together;  “the  song.  Major! 
the  song!” 

“ Time  enough  for  that;  we’re  doing  very  well  as  it  is.  Upo«i 
my  life,  though,  they  hold  a deal  of  wine.  I thought  we’d 
have  had  them  fit  to  bargain  with  before  ten,  and  see,  it’s  near 
midnight,  and  I must  have  my  forage  accounts  ready  for  the 
Commissary-General  by  to-morrow  morning.” 

This  speech  having  informed  me  the  reason  of  the  Major’s 
presence  there,  I resolved  to  wait  no  longer  a mere  spectator  of 
their  proceeding;  so  dismounting  from  my  position,  I com- 
menced a vigorous  attack  upon  the  door. 

It  was  some  time  before  I was  heard,  but  at  length  the  door 
was  opened,  and  I was  accosted  by  an  Englishman,  who,  in  a 
strange  compound  of  French  and  English,  asked  what  the  devil 
I meant  by  all  that  uproar.  Determining  to  startle  my  old  friend 
the  Major,  I replied  that  I was  an  aid-de-camp  to  General  Pic- 
ton,  and  had  come  down  on  very  unpleasant  business.  By  this 
time  the  noise  of  the  party  within  had  completely  subsided,  and 
from  a few  whispered  sentences,  and  their  thickened  breathing, 
I perceived  that  they  were  listening. 

“ May  I ask,  sir,”  continued  I,  “if  Major  Monsoon  is  here?” 

“Yes,”  stammered  out  the  ensign,  for  such  he  was. 

“ Sorry  for  it,  for  his  sake,”  said  I,  “ but  my  orders  are  per- 
emptory.” 

A deep  groan  from  within,  and  a muttered  request  to  pass 
down  the  sherry  nearly  overcame  my  gravity;  but  I resumed: 

“If  you’ll  permit  me,  I will  make  the  affair  as  short  as  possi- 
ble. The  Major,  I presume,  is  here  ?” 

So  saying,  I pushed  forward  into  the  room,  where  now  a slight 
scuffling  noise  and  murmur  of  voices  had  succeeded  silence. 
Brief  as  was  the  interval  of  our  colloquy,  the  scene  within 
had  notwithstanding  undergone  considerable  change.  The  Eng- 
lish olBScers,  hastily  throwing  off  their  aldermanic  robes,  were 
busily  arraying  themselves  in  their  uniforms,  while  Monsoon 
himself,  with  a huge  basin  and  water  before  him,  was  endeavor- 
ing to  wash  the  cork  from  his  countenance  in  the  corner  of  his 
tabard. 

“Very  hard  upon  me  all  this;  upon  my  life,  so  it  is.  Pictou 
is  always  at  me,  just  as  if  we  had  not  been  school-fellows.  The 
service  is  getting  worse  every  day.  Regardez-moi,  ciirey^mong  face 
est  propre  ? Eh  ? There,  thank  vou.  Good  fellow  the  cure  is. 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


259 


but  takes  a deal  of  fluid.  Oh,  burgomaster!  I feel  it  is 
all  up  with  me;  no  more  fun,  no  more  jollification,  no  more 
plunder — and  how  I did  do  it!  nothing  like  watching  one’s  little 
chances.  ‘ The  poor  is  hated  even  by  his  neighbor.’  Oui,  curey, 
it  is  Solomon  says  that,  and  they  must  have  had  a very  poor  rate 
in  his  day  to  make  him  say  so.  Another  glass  of  sherry.” 

By  this  time  I approached  the  back  of  his  chair,  and  slapping 
him  heartily  on  the  shoulder,  called  out: 

“ Major!  old  boy,  how  goes  it  ?” 

“ Eh  ? what  ? ho  w!  who  is  this  ? It  can’t  be — egad,  sure  it  is, 
though.  Charley?  Charley  O’Malley,  you  scapegrace,  where 
have  you  been  ? when  did  you  join  ?” 

‘ ‘ A week  ago,  Major,  I could  resist  it  no  longer ; I did  my 
best  to  be  a country  gentleman,  and  behave  respectably,  but  the 
old  temptation  was  too  strong  for  me.  Fred  Power  and  your- 
self, Major,  had  ruined  my  education,  and  here  I am  once  more 
among  you,” 

“And  so  Picton,  and  the  arrest  and  all  that,  was  nothing  but 
a joke  ?”  said  the  old  fellow,  rolling  his  wicked  eyes,  with  a most 
cunning  expression. 

“ Nothing  more.  Major;  set  your  heart  at  rest.” 

“ What  a scamp  you  are,”  said  he,  with  another  grin.  “ 11 
estmonflls — ilestmonfils,  curey,^^  presenting  me,  as  he  spoke, 
while  the  burgomaster,  in  whose  eyes  the  Major  seemed  no  in- 
considerable personage,  saluted  me  with  profound  respect. 

Turning  at  once  toward  this  functionary,  I explained  that  I 
was  the  bearer  of  important  dispatches,  and  that  my  horse — I 
was.  ashamed  to  say  my  mule — having  fallen  lame,  1 was  unable 
to  proceed. 

“ Can  you  procure  me  a re-mount,  monsieur  ?”  said  I;  “ for  I 
must  hasten  on  to  Courtrai.” 

“In  half  an  hour  you  shall  be  provided,  as  well  as  with  a 
mounted  guide  for  the  road.  Le  fils  de  son  excellence, said  he, 
with  emphasis,  bowing  to  the  Major,  as  he  spoke;  who,  in  his 
turn,  repaid  the  courtesy  with  a still  lower  obeisance. 

“ Sit  down,  Charley;  here  is  a clean  glass.  I am  delighted 
to  see  you,  my  boy.  They  tell  me  you  have  got  a capital  estate, 
and  plenty  of  ready.  Lord!  we  so  wanted  you,  as  there’s 
scarcely  a fellow  with  a sixpence  among  us.  Give  me  the  lad 
that  can  do  a bit  of  paper  at  three  months,  and  always  ready 
for  a renewal.  You  haven’t  got  a twenty-pound  note?”  This 
was  said  sotto  voce.  “ Never  mind,  ten  will  do;  you  will  give 
me  the  remainder  at  Brussels.  Strange,  is  it  not,  I have  not 
seen  a bit  of  clean  bank  paper  like  this  for  above  a twelve- 
month  K This  was  said,  as  he  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket, 
with  one  of  those  peculiar  leers  upon  his  countenance,  which 
unfortunately  betrayed  more  satisfaction  at  his  success  than 
gratitude  for  the  service.  “You  are  looking  fat — too  fat,  I 
think,”  said  he,  scrutinizing  me  from  head  to  foot;  “but  the 
Hfe  we  aj  e leading  just  now  will  soon  take  that  off.  The  slave 
trade  is  luxurious  indolence  compared  to  it.  Post  haste  to 
Nivelle  one  day;  down  to  Ghent  the  next;  forty  miles  over  a 
paved  road  in  a hand  gallop,  and  an  aid-de-camp  with  a watch 


260 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


in  his  hand  at  the  end  of  it,  to  report  if  you  are  ten  minutes  too 
late.  And  there  is  Wellington  has  his  eye  everywhere;  there 
is  not  a truss  of  hay  served  to  the  cavalry,  nor  a pair  of  shoes 
half  soled  in  the  regiment  that  he  don’t  know  of  it.  I’ve  got  it 
over  my  knuckles  already.” 

“How  so,  Major?  how  was  that?” 

“ Why,  he  ordered  me  to  picket  two  squadrons  of  the  Seventh, 
and  a supper  was  waiting.  I didn’t  like  to  leave  my  quarters; 
so  I took  my  telescope,  and  pitched  upon  a sweet  little  spot  of 
ground  on  a hill;  rather  difficult  to  get  up,  to  be  sure,  but  a 
beautiful  view  when  you’re  on  it.  ‘ There  is  your  ground.  Cap- 
tain,’ said  I,  as  I sent  one  of  the  people  to  mark  the  spot.  He 
did  not  like  it  much;  however,  he  was  obliged  to  go.  And, 
would  you  believe  it?  so  much  for  bad  luckl  there  turned  out 
to  be  no  water  within  two  miles  of  it;  not  a drop,  Charley;  and 
so  about  eleven  at  night  the  squadrons  moved  down  into  Gram- 
mont  to  wet  their  lips,  and,  what  was  worse,  to  report  me  to 
the  commanding  officer.  And,  only  think!  they  put  me  under 
arrest,  because  Providence  did  not  make  a river  run  up  a 
mountain.” 

Just  as  the  Major  finished  speaking,  the  distant  clatter  of 
horses’  feet  and  the  clank  of  cavalry  was  heard  approaching. 
We  all  rushed  eagerly  to  the  door,  and  scarcely  had  we  done  so, 
when  a squadron  of  dragoons  came  riding  up  the  street  at  a fast 
trot. 

“ I say,  good  people,”  cried  the  officer  in  French,  “ where  does 
the  burgomaster  live  here  ?” 

“ Fred  Power,  ’ponmy  life!”  shouted  the  Major. 

“ Eh,  Monsoon,  that  you?  Give  me  a tumbler  of  wine,  old 
boy;  you  are  sure  to  have  some,  and  I am  desperately  blown,” 

“ Get  down,  Fred — get  down;  we  have  an  old  friend  here.” 

“Who the  deuce  d’ye  mean?”  said  he,  as  throwing  himself 
from  the  saddle,  he  strode  into  the  room. 

“ Charley  O’Malley!  By  all  that’s  glorious!’^ 

“Fred,  rny  gallant  fellow!”  said  I. 

“ It  was  but  this  morning,  Charley,  that  I so  wished  for  you 
here.  The  French  are  advancing,  my  lad;  they  have  crossed 
the  frontier;  Zeithen’s  corps  has  been  attacked,  and  driven  in; 

• Blucher  is  falling  back  upon  Ligny ; and  the  campaign  is  opened. 
But  I must  press  forward;  the  regiment  is  close  behind  me,  and 
we  are  ordered  to  push  for  Brussels  in  all  haste.” 

“Then  these  dispatches,”  said  I,  showing  my  packet,  “ ’tis 
unnecessary  to  proceed  with.” 

“ Quite  so.  Get  into  the  saddle  and  come  back  with  us,” 

The  burgomaster  had  kept  his  word  with  me,  so,  mounted 
upon  a strong  hackney,  I set  out  with  Power  on  the  road  to 
Brussels.  I have  more  than  once  had  occasion  to  ask  pardon  of 
my  reader  for  the  prolixity  of  my  narrative;  so  I shall  not  tres- 
pass on  him  here  by  the  detail  of  our  conversation  as  we  jogged, 
along.  Of  me  and  my  adventures  he  already  knows  enough — 
perhaps  too  much.  My  friend  Power’s  career,  aboun<iing  as  it 
did  in  striking  incidents  and  all  the  light  and  shadow  of  a sol- 
dier’s life,  yet  not  bearing  upon  sluj  of  the  characters  I have 


CHARLES  SMALLEY.  261 

presented  to  your  acquaintance,  except  in  one  instance,  of  that 
only  shall  I speak. 

“And  the  senora,  Fred,  how  goes  your  fortune  in  that 
quarter  ?” 

“ Gloriously,  Gharley.  I am  every  day  expecting  the  promo- 
tion in  my  regiment  which  is  to  make  her  mine.*’ 

“You  have  heard  from  her  lately,  then 

“ Heard  from  her?  Why,  man,  she  is  in  Brussels.” 

“ In  Brussels  V” 

“ To  be  sure.  Don  Emanuel  is  in  high  favor  with  the  Duke, 
and  is  now  Commissary-General  of  the  army,  and  the  senora 
is  the  belle  of  the  Rue  Roy  ale,  or,  at  least,  it’s  a divided  sover- 
eignty between  her  and  Lucy  Dash  wood.  And  now,  Charley, 
let  me  ask,  what  of  her?  There — there,  don’t  blush,  man; 
there  is  quite  enough  moonlight  to  show  how  tender  you  are  in 
that  quarter.” 

“ Once  for  all,  Fred,  pray  spare  me  on  that  subject.  You 
have  been  far  too  fortunate  in  your  affaire  du  cceur,  and  I 
too  much  the  reverse,  to  permit  much  sympathy  between  us.” 

“ Do  you  not  visit,  then?  oris  it  a cut  between  you?” 

“ I l^ave  never  met  her  since  the  night  of  the  masquerade  of 
the  Villa , at  least  to  speak  to ” 

“ Well,  I must  confess,  you  seem  to  manage  your  own  affairs 
much  worse  than  your  friends’;  not  but  that  in  so  doing  you 
are  exhibiting  a very  Irish  feature  in  your  character,  In  any 
case,  you  will  come  to  the  ball;  Inez  will  be  delighted  to  see 
you;  and  I have  got  over  all  my  jealousy,” 

“ What  ball  ? I never  heard  of  it.” 

“Never  heard  of  it?  why,  the  Duchess  of  Richmond’s,  of 
course;  pooh,  pooh,  man;  not  invited?  the  staff  are  never  left 
out  on  such  occasions;  you  will  find  your  card  at  your  hotel  on 
your  return.” 

“In  any  case,  Fred 

“ I shall  insist  upon  your  going.  I have  no  arriere  pensee 
about  a reconciliation  with  the  Dash  wood’s;  no  subtle  scheme 
on  my  honor;  but  simply,  I feel  that  you  will  never  give  your- 
self fair  chances  in  the  world,  by  indulging  your  habit  of 
shrinking  from  every  embarrassment.  Don’t  be  offended,  boy; 
I know  you  have  pluck  enough  to  storm  a battery;  I have  seen 
you  under  fire  before  now.  What  avails  your  courage  in  the 
field,  if  you  have  not  presence  of  mind  in  the  drawing-room  ? 
Beside,  everything  else  out  of  the  question,  it  is  a breach  of 
etiquette  toward  your  chief  to  decline  such  an  invitation.” 

“ You  think  so  ?” 

“ Think  so  ? no,  I am  sure  of  it.’* 

“ Then,  as  to  uniform.  Fred  ?” 

“ Oh,  as  to  that,  easily  managed;  and  now  I think  of  It,  they 
have  sent  me  an  unattached  uniform  which  you  can  have,  but 
remember,  my  boy,  if  I put  you  in  my  coat,  I don’t  want  you  to 
stand  in  my  shoes.  Don’t  forget,  also,  that  I am  your  debtor  in 
horseflesh,  and  fortunately  able  to  repay  you;  I have  got  such  a 
charger,  your  own  favorite  color,  dark  chestnut,  and,  except 


262 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


one  white  leg,  not  a spot  about  him;  can  carry  sixteen  stone 
over  a five-foot  fence,  and  as  steady  as  a rock  under  fire.” 

^ But,  Fred,  how  are  you ?” 

‘‘Oh,  never  mind  me.  1 have  six  in  my  stable,  and  intend  to 
share  with  you.  The  fact  is,  I have  been  transferred  from  one 
staff  to  another  for  the  last  six  months,  and  four  of  my  number 
are  presents.  Is  Mike  with  you  ? Am  glad  to  bear  it.  You 
will  never  get  along  without  that  fellow;  beside,  it  is  a capital 
thing  to  have  such  a connecting  link  with  one's  nationality;  no 
fear  of  you  ever  forgetting  Ireland,  with  Mr.  Free  in  your  com- 
pany; you  are  not  aware  that  we  have  been  correspondents — a 
fact,  I assure  you.  Mike  wrote  me  two  letters,  and  such  letters 
they  were;  the  last  was  a Jeremiad  over  your  decline  and  fail; 
with  a very  ominous  picture  of  a certain  Miss  Baby  Blake  !” 

“Confound  the  rascal!” 

“ By  Jove,  though,  Charley,  you  were  coming  it  rather  strong 
with  Baby.  Inez  saw  the  letter,  and,  as  well  as  she  could  decipher 
Mike’s  hieroglyphics,  saw  there  was  something  in  it;  but  the 
name  Baby  puzzled  her  immensely,  and  she  set  the  whole  thing 
down  to  your  great  love  of  children.  I don’t  think  that  Lucy 
quite  agreed  with  her.” 

“ Did  she  tell  it  to  Miss  Dash  wood?"  I inquired,  with  fear  and 
trembling. 

“ Oh,  that  she  did;  in  fact,  Inez  never  ceases  talking  of  you  to 
Lucy.  But  come,  lad,  don’t  look  so  grave;  let’s  have  another 
brush  with  the  enemy,  capture  a battery  of  their  guns;  carry  off 
a French  Marshal  or  two;  get  the  Bath  for  your  services;  and 
be  thanked  in  the  general  orders;  and  I will  wager  all  my  cha- 
teaux en  Espagne,  that  everything  goes  vrell.’' 

Thus  chatting  away,  sometimes  over  the  past,  of  our  former 
friends  and  gay  companions,  of  our  days  of  calm  and  sunshine; 
sometimes  indulging  in  prospects  for  the  future,  we  trotted 
along,  and,  as  the  day  was  breaking,  mounted  the  ridge  of  low 
hills,  from  which,  at  the  distance  of  a couple  of  leagues,  the  city 
of  Brussels  came  into  view. 


CHAPTER  CXVII, 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  RICHMOND’S  BALI^ 

Whether  we  regard  the  illustrious  and  distinguished  person- 
ages who  thronged  around,  or  we  think  of  the  portentous 
moment  in  which  it  was  given,  the  Duchess  of  Richmond’s  ball, 
on  the  night  of  the  15th  of  June,  1815,  was  not  only  one  of  the 
most  memorable,  but  in  its  interest,  the  most  exciting  entertain- 
ment thal  the  memory  of  any  one  now  living  can  compass. 

There  is  always  something  of  no  common  interest  in  seeing 
the  bronzed  and  war-worn  soldier  mixing  in  the  crowd  of  light- 
hearted and  brilliant  beauty.  To  watch  the  eye  whose  proud 
glance  has  flashed  o'er  the  mail-clad  squadrons,  now  bending 
meekly  beneath  the  look  of  some  timid  girl;  to  hear  the  voice  that, 
high  above  the  battle  or  the  breeze,  has  shouted  the  hoarse  word 
“ charge,”  now  subdued  into  the  low,  soft  murmur  of  flattery, 
or  compliment;  this,  at  any  time,  is  a picture  full  of  its  own 


CHARLES  aMALLEY, 


m 


charm;  but  when  you  see  these  heroes  of  a hundred  fights; 
when  we  look  upon  those  hardy  veterans,  upon  whose  worn  brow 
the  whitened  locks  of  time  are  telling,  indulging  themselves 
in  the  careless  gayety  of  a moment,  snatched  as  it  were  from  the 
arduous  career  of  their  existence;  while  the  tramp  of  the  advanc- 
ing  enemj^  shakes  the  very  soil  they  stand  on,  and  where  it 
may  be  doubted  whether  each  aid-de-camp  who  enters  comes  a 
new  votary  of  pleasure,  or  the  bearer  of  tidings  that  the  troops 
of  the  foe  are  advancing,  and  already  the  work  of  death  has  be- 
gun. This  is,  indeed,  a scene  to  make  the  heart  throb,  and  the 
pulse  beat  high;  this  is  a moment,  second  in  its  proud  excite- 
ment only  to  the  very  crash  and  din  of  battle  itself;  and  into 
this  entrancing  whirlwind  of  passion  and  of  pleasure,  of  a brilliant 
beauty  and  ennobled  greatness  of  all  that  is  lovely  in  woman, 
and  all  that  is  chivalrous  and  heroic  in  man,  I brought  a heart 
which,  young  in  years,  was  yet  tempered  by  disappointment; 
still,  such  was  the  fascination,  such  the  brilliancy  of  the  spectacle, 
that  scarcely  had  I entered,  than  I felt  a change  come  over  me — 
the  old  spirit  of  my  boyish  ardor — that  high -wrought  enthusiasm 
to  do  something — to  be  sometiung  which  men  may  speak  of — 
shot  suddenly  through  me,  and  I felt  my  cheek  tingle,  and  my 
temples  throb,  as  name  alter  narre  of  starred  and  titled  officers 
were  announced,  to  think  that  to  me  also  the  path  of  glorious 
enterprise  was  opening. 

“Come  along,  come  along,”  said  Power,  catching  me  by  the 
arm,  “ you’ve  not  been  presented  to  the  Duchess:  I know  her, 
I’ll  do  it  for  you — or  perhaps  it  is  better  Sir  Thomas  Picton  should; 
in  any  case,  ^jilez'  after  me,  for  the  dark-eyed  senora  is  surely 
expecting  us.  There,  do  you  see  that  dark  intelligent- loo  king 
fellow  leaning  over  the  end  of  the  sofa?  that  is  Aliva;  and  there, 
you  know  who  that  is,  that  beaii-ideal  of  a hussar  ? Look  how 
jauntily  he  carries  himself;  see  the  careless  but  graceful 
sling  with  which  he  edges  through  the  crowd;  and  look! — mark 
his  bow! — did  you  see  that,  Charley? — did  you  catch  the  quick 
glance  be  shot  yonder,  and  the  soft  smile  that  showed  his  white 
teeth  ? Depend  upon  it,  boy,  some  fair  heart  is  not  the  better 
nor  the  easier  for  that  look.” 

“ Who  is  it?”  said  I. 

“Lord  Uxbridge,  to  be  sure;  the  handsomest  fellow  in  the 
sevice;  and  there  goes  Vandeleur,  talking  with  Vivian;  the 
other,  to  the  left,  is  Ponsonby.” 

“But  stay,  Fred,  tell  me  who  that  is?”  Fora  moment  or 
two,  I had  some  difficulty  in  directing  his  attention  to  the  quar- 
ter I desired.  The  individual  I pointed  out  was  somewhat  above 
the  middle  size;  his  uniform  of  blue  and  gold,  though  singularly 
plain,  had  a look  of  richness  about  it;  beside  that,  among  the 
orders  which  covered  his  breast,  he  wore  one  star  of  great  bril- 
liancy and  size.  This,  however,  was  his  least  distinction;  for  al- 
though surrounded  on  every  side  by  those  who  might  be  deemed 
the  very  types  and  pictures  of  their  caste,  there  was  something 
in  the  easy  bht  upright  carriage  of  his  head;  the  intrepid  char- 
racterof  his  features;  the  bold  and  vigorous  flashing  of  his  deep 
blue  eye,  that  marked  him  as  no  common  man.  He  was  talking 


264 


CHARLES  a MALLET. 


with  an  old  and  prosy-looking  personage,  in  civilian  dress;  and 
while  I could  detect  an  anxiety  to  get  free  from  a tiresome 
companion,  there  was  an  air  of  deferential,  and  even  kind 
attention  in  his  manner,  absolutely  captivating. 

“ A thorough  gentleman,  Fred,  whoever  he  be,”  said  I. 

“ I should  think  so,”  replied  Power  dryly,  “ and  as  our  coun- 
trymen would  say,  ‘the  devil  thank  him  for  it;’  that  is  the 
Prince  of  Orange;  but  see,  look  at  him  now,  his  features  hav6 
learned  another  fashion;”  and  true  it  was;  with  a smile  of  the 
most  winning  softness,  and  with  a voice,  whose  slightly  for- 
eign accent  took  nothing  from  its  interest,  I heard  him  engag- 
ing a partner  for  a waltz. 

There  was  a flutter  of  excitement  in  the  circle  as  the  lady  rose 
to  take  his  arm,  and  a muttered  sound  of,  how  very  beautiful, 

guelle  est  belle  c^est  une  ange''^ — on  all  sides.  I leaned  for- 
ward to  catch  a glance  as  she  passed — it  was  Lucy  Dash  wood. 
Beautiful  beyond  anything  I had  ever  seen  her,  her  lovely  feat 
ures  lit  up  with  pleasure  and  with  pride,  she  looked  in  every 
way  worthy  to  lean  upon  the  arm  of  royalty.  The  graceful 
majesty  of  her  walk,  the  placid  loveliness  of  her  gentle  smile 
struck  every  one  as  she  passed  on.  As  for  me,  totally  forgetting 
all  else,  not  seeing  or  heai'ing  aught  around  me,  I followed  her 
with  my  eye  until  she  was  lost  among  the  crowd,  and  then,  with 
an  impulse  of  which  I was  not  master,  followed  in  her  steps. 

“ This  way,  this  way,”  said  Power,  “I  see  the  senora.”  So 
saying,  we  entered  a little  boudoir,  where  a party  was  playing 
at  cards.  Leaning  on  the  back  of  a chair,  Inez  was  endeavoring, 
with  that  mixture  of  coquetry  and  half  malice  she  possessed,  to 
distract  the  attention  of  the  player.  As  Power  came  near  she 
scarcely  turned  her  head  to  give  him  a kind  of  saucy  smile. 
While  seeing  me  she  held  out  her  hand  with  a friendly  warmth, 
and  seemed  quite  happy  to  meet  me. 

“ Do  pray,  take  her  away;  get  her  to  dance,  to  eat  ice,  or  flirt 
with  you,  for  heaven’s  sake,”  said  the  half-laughing  voice  of  her 
victim.  “I  have  revoked  twice,  and  misdealed  four  times  since 
she  has  been  here.  Believe  me,  I shall  take  it  as  the  greatest 
favor  if  you’ll ” 

As  he  got  thus  far  he  turned  round  toward  me,  and  I perceived 
it  was  Sir  George  Dash  wood.  The  meeting  was  as  awkward  for 
him  as  for  me;  and  while  a deep  flush  covered  my  face,  he  mut- 
tered some  unintelligible  apology,  and  Inez  burst  into  a very  fit 
of  laughter  at  the  ludicrous  coniretemps  of  our  situation. 

“ I will  dance  with  you  now,  if  you  like,”  said  she,  “ and  that 
will  be  punishing  all  three.  Eh,  Master  Fred  ?” 

So  saying,  slie  took  my  arm  as  I led  her  toward  the  ball-room. 

“And  so  you  are  really  not  friends  with  the  Dashwoods? 
How  very  provoking,  and  how  foolish,  too.  But  really,  cheva- 
lier, I must  say  you  treat  ladies  very  ill.  I don’t  forget  your 
conduct  to  me.*  Dear  me,  I wish  we  could  move  forward,  there 
is  some  one  pushing  me  dreadfully.” 

“Get  on,  ma’am,  get  on,”  said  a sharp,  decided  voice  behind 
me.  I turned,  half  smiling,  to  see  the  speaker.  It  was  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  himself,  who,  with  his  eye  fixed  upon  some 


CHARLES  OLMALLEW 


2fi5 

person  at  a distance,  seemed  to  cafe  very  little  for  any  interven- 
ing obstruction.  As  I made  way  for  him  to  pass  between  ue,  he 
looked  hardly  at  me,  while  he  said  in  a short,  quick  way;  “ Know 
your  face  \ ery  well;  how  d’ye  do?”  With  this  brief  recognition 
he  passed  on,  leaving  me  to  console  Inez  for  her  crushed  slei've 
by  informing  her  who  had  done  it. 

The  ball  was  now  at  its  height.  The  waltzers  whirled  past  in 
the  wild  excitement  of  the  dance.  The  inspiriting  strains  of  the 
music,  the  sounds  of  laughter,  the  din,  the  tumult,  all  made  up 
that  strange  medley  which,  reacting  upon  the  minds  of  those 
who  cause  it,  increases  the  feeling  of  pleasurable  abandon- 
ment; making  the  old  feel  young,  and  the  young  intoxicated  with 
delight. 

As  the  senora  leaned  upon  me,  fatigued  with  waltzing,  I was 
endeavoring  to  sustain  a conversation  with  her;  w^hile  my 
thoughts  were  wandering  with  my  eyes  to  where  I had  last  seen 
Lucy  Dash  wood. 

“ It  must  be  something  of  importance;  I’m  sure  it  is,”  said  she 
at  the  conclusion  of  a speech  of  which  I had  not  heard  one  word. 
“ Look  at  General  Picton’s  face.” 

“ Very  pretty,  indeed,”  said  I;  “but  the  hair  is  unbecoming,” 
replying  to  some  previous  observation  she  had  made,  and  still 
lost  in  a reverie.  A hearty  burst  of  laughter  was  her  answer  as 
she  gently  shook  my  arm,  saying:  “ You  really  are  too  bad.  You 
never  listened  to  one  word  I’ve  been  telling  you,  but  keep  con- 
tinually staring  with  your  eyes  here  and  there,  turning  this  way 
and  looking  that;  and  tlie  duU  and  vacant  unmeaning  smile; 
answering  at  random,  in  the  most  provoking  manner.  There, 
now,  pray  pay  attention,  and  tell  me  what  that  means.”  As  she 
said  this  she  pointed  with  her  fan  to  where  a dragoon  officer  in 
splashed  and  spattered  uniform  was  standing,  talking  to  some 
three  or  four  general  officers.  “ But  here  comes  the  Duke;  it 
can’t  be  anything  of  consequence.” 

At  the  same  instant  the  Duke  of  Wellington  passed  with  the 
Duchess  of  Richmond  on  his  arm. 

“ No,  Duchess;  nothing  to  alarm  you.  Did  you  say  ice?” 

“There,  you  heard  that,  I hope?”  said  Inez;  “there  is  nothing 
to  alarm  us.” 

“ Go  to  General  Picton  at  once;  but  don’t  let  it  be  remarked,” 
said  an  officer  in  a whisper,  as  he  passed  close  by  me. 

“ Inez,  I have  the  greatest  curiosity  to  learn  what  that  new 
arrival  has  to  say  for  himself;  and,  if  you  will  permit  me.  I’ll 
leave  you  with  Lady  Gordon  for  one  moment ” 

“ Delighted  of  all  things.  You  are,  without  exception,  the 
most  tiresome . Good-bye.” 

“ Sans  adieu,"  said  I,  as  I hurried  through  the  crowd  toward 
an  open  window,  on  the  balcony  outside  of  which  Sir  Thomas 
Picton  was  standing. 

“Ah,  Mr.  O’Malley;  have  you  a pencil?  There,  thatTl  do. 
Ride  down  to  Etterbeck  with  this  order  for  Godwin.  You  have 
heard  the  news,  I suppose,  that  the  French  are  in  advance? 
The  Seventy-ninth  will  muster  in  the  Grand  Place;  the  Ninety- 
second  and  the  Tw^enty-eighth  along  the  Park  and  the  Boule- 


266 


CHARLES  OMALLEY. 


vard.  Napoleon  left  Frasnes  this  morning.  The  Prussians  hav« 
fallen  back.  Ziethen  has  been  beaten.  We  march  at  once.” 

“ To-morrow,  sir  ?” 

**  No,  sir;  to-night.  There!  don’t  delay.  But  above  all,  let 
everything  be  done  quietly  and  noiselessly.  The  Duke  will  re- 
main here  for  an  hour  longer,  to  prevent  suspicion.  When 
you’ve  executed  your  orders,  come  back  here.” 

I mounted  the  first  horse  I could  find  at  tlie  door,  and  gal- 
loped with  top  speed  over  the  heavy  causeway  to  Etterbeck.  In 
two  minutes  the  drum  beat  to  arms;  and  the  men  were  muster- 
ing as  I left.  Thence  I hastened  to  the  barracks  of  the  High- 
land Brigade  and  the  Tw’enty-eighth  regiment,  and  before  half 
an  hour,  was  back  in  the  ball-room,  where,  from  the  din  and 
tumult,  I guessed  the  scene  of  pleasure  and  dissipation  con- 
tinued unabated.  As  1 hurried  up  the  staircase,  a throng  of 
persons  were  coming  down,  and  I was  obliged  to  step  aside  and 
let  them  pass. 

“ Ah!  come  here,  pray,”  said  Picton,  who,  with  a lady,  cloaked 
and  hooded,  leaning  upon  his  arm,  was  struggling  to  make  way 
through  the  crowd.  “The  very  man! 

‘ Will  you  excuse  me,  if  I commit  you  to  the  care  of  my  aid- 
de-camp,  who  will  see  you  to  your  carriage?  The  Duke  has 
just  desired  to  see  me.  ’ This  he  said  in  a hurried  and  exciied 
tone;  and  the  samfe  moment  beckoned  to  me  to  take  the  lady’s 
arm. 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  I succeeded  in  reaching  the  spot, 
and  had  only  time  to  ask  whose  carriage  I should  call  for,  ere 
we  arrived  in  the  hall. 

Sir  George  Dash  wood’s,”  said  a low  soft  voice,  whose  accent 
sank  into  my  very  heart.  Heaven!  it  was  Lucy  herself;  it  was 
her  arm  that  leaned  on  mine,  her  locks  that  fluttered  beside  me, 
her  hand  that  hung  so  near,  and  yet  I could  not  speak,  I tried 
one  word;  but  a choking  feeling  in  my  throat  prevented  utter- 
ance, and  already  we  were  upon  the  door-steps. 

“Sir  George  Dashwood’s  carriage.”  shouted  the  footman,  and 
the  announcement  was  repeated  by  the  porter.  The  steps  were 
hurried  down;  the  footman  stood,  door  in  hand;  and  I led  her 
forward,  mute  and  trembling;  did  she  know  me  ? I assisted  her 
as  she  stepped  in;  her  hand  touched  mine;  it  was  the  work  of  a 
second;  to  me  it  was  the  bliss  of  years.  She  leaned  a little  for- 
ward; and,  as  the  servant  put  up  the  steps,  said  in  her  soft, 
sweet  tone:  “ Thank  you,  sir.  Good-night.” 

I felt  my  shoulder  touched  by  some  one,  who,  it  appeared,  was 
standing  close  to  me  for  some  seconds;  but  so  occupied  was  I in 
gazing  at  her,  that  I paid  no  attention  to  the  circumstance.  The 
carriage  drove  away,  and  disappeared  in  the  thick  darkness  of 
a starless  night.  I turned  to  the  fealures  of  the  man  beside  me, 
and  they  showed  me  the  pale  and  corpse-like  face  of  Fred  Ham- 
mersly.  His  eye  was  bent  upon  me  with  an  expression  of  fierce 
and  fiery  passion,  in  which  the  sadness  of  long  suffering  also 
mingled.  His  bloodless  lips  parted,  moved  as  though  speaking, 
while  yet  no  sound  issued;  and  his  nostrils,  dilating  and  con- 


CHARLES  SMALLEY.  267 

tractiug  by  turns,  seemed  to  denote  some  deep  and  hidden  emo- 
tion that  worked  within  him. 

“Hammersly,”  said  I,  holding  out  my  hand  toward  him. 
“ Hammersly,  do  not  always  mistake  me.” 

He  shook  his  head  mournfully  as  it  feU  forward  on  his  breast; 
and,  covering  his  arm,  moved  slowly  away  without  speaking. 

General  Picton’s  voice,  as  he  descended  the  stairs,  accompanied 
by  Generals  Vandeleur  and  Vivian,  aroused  me  at  once,  and  I 
hurried  toward  him. 

“ Now,  sir,  to  horse.  The  troops  will  defile  by  the  Namur  gate; 
and  meet  me  there  in  an  hour.  Meanwhile  tell  Colonel  Cameron 
that  he  must  march  with  the  light  companies  of  his  own  and 
the  Ninety-second  at  once!” 

“ I say,  Picton,  they’ll  say  we  were  taken  by  surprise  in  Eng- 
land; won’t  they?”  said  a sharp,  strong  voice,  in  a half  laugh- 
ing tone,  from  behind. 

“ No,  your  grace,”  said  Sir  Thomas,  bowing  slightly;  “they’ll 
scarcely  do  so,  when  they  hear  the  time  we  took  to  get  under 
arms.” 

I heard  no  more;  but  throwing  myself  into  the  saddle  of  my 
troop  horse,  once  more  rode  back  to  the  Bellevue,  to  make  ready 
for  the  road. 

The  thin,  pale  crescent  of  a new  moon,  across  which  masses 
of  dark  and  inky  clouds  were  hurrving,  tipped  with  its  faint  and 
sickly  light  the  tall  minarets  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  as  1 rode 
into  the  Grand  Place.  Although  midnight,  the  streets  were  as 
crowded  as  at  noonday  ; horse,  foot,  and  dragoons  passing  and 
hurrying  hither;  the  wild  pibroch  of  the  Highlander;  the  mellow 
bugle  of  the  Seventy- first;  the  hoarse  trumpet  of  the  cavalry; 
the  incessant  roll  of  the  drum,  mingled  their  sounds  with  the 
tide  of  human  voices,  in  which  every  accent  was  heard,  from 
the  reckless  cheer  of  anticipated  victory  to  the  heart-piercing 
shriek  of  woman’s  agony.  Lights  gleamed  from  every  window; 
from  the  doors  of  almost  every  house  poured  forth  a crowd  of 
soldiers  and  townsfolk.  The  sergeants,  on  one  side,  might  be 
seen  telling  off  their  men,  their  cool  and  steady  countenances 
evincing  no  semblance  of  emotions;  while  near  them  some 
ensign,  whose  beardless  cheek  and  vacant  smile  bespoke  the 
mere  boy,  looked  on,  with  mingled  pride  and  wonder,  at  the 
wild  scene  before  him.  Every  now  and  then  some  general 
officer,  with  his  staff,  came  cantering  past;  and,  as  the  efforts 
to  muster  and  form  the  troops  grew  more  pressing,  I could  mark 
how  soon  we  were  destined  to  meet  the  enemy. 

There  are  few  finer  monuments  of  the  architecture  of  the 
middle  ages  than  the  Grand  Place  of  Brussels;  the  rich  facade 
of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  with  its  Jong  colonnade  of  graceful  arches, 
upon  every  keystone  of  which  some  grim,  grotesque  head  is 
peering.  The  massive  cornices;  the  heavy  corbels  carved 
into  ten  thousand  strange  and  uncouth  fancies,  but,  finer  than 
all,  the  taper  and  stately  spire,  fretted  and  perforated  like  some 
silver  filagree,  stretches  upw  ard  toward  the  sky,  its  airy  pinna- 
cle growing  finer  and  more  beautiful  as  it  nears  the  stars  it 


268 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


points  to.  How  full  of  historic  associations  is  every  dark  em- 
brasure, every  narrow  casement  around! 

Here  may  have  stood  the  great  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth, 
meditating  upon  that  greatness  he  was  about  to  forego  forever! 
here,  from  tnis  tall  window,  may  have  looked  the  sad  and 
sickly  features  of  Jeanne  Lafolle,  as  with  wandering  eye  and 
idiot  smile,  she  gazed  upon  the  gorgeous  procession  beneath. 
There  is  not  a stone  that  has  not  echoed  to  the  tread  of  hauglity 
prince  or  bold  baron;  yet  never,  in  the  palmiest  days  of  ancient 
chivalry,  did  those  proud  dwellings  of  the  great  of  old  look  out 
upon  a braver  and  more  valiant  host  than  now  thronged  be- 
neath their  shadow.  It  was,  indeed,  a splendid  sight,  where  the 
bright  gleams  of  torch  and  lantern  threw  the  red  light  around, 
to  watch  the  measured  tread  and  steady  tramp  of  the  Highland 
regiments  as  they  defiled  into  the  open  space;  each  footstep,  as 
it  met  the  ground,  seeming  in  its  proud  and  firm  tread  to  move 
in  more  than  sympathy  with  the  wild  notes  of  their  native 
mountains;  silent  and  still  they  moved  along;  no  voice  spoke 
within  their  ranks,  save  that  of  some  command,  to  “close  up — 
take  ground— :to  the  right — ^rear  rank— close  order.”  Except 
such  brief  words  as  these,  or  the  low  muttered  praise  of  some 
veteran  general  as  he  rode  down  the  line,  all  was  orderly  and 
steady  as  on  a parade.  Meanwhile,  from  an  angle  of  the  square,  the 
band  of  an  approaching  regiment  was  heard;  and  to  the  inspirit- 
ing quickness  of  “ The  Young  May  Moon,”  the  gallant  Twenty- 
eighth  came  forward,  and  took  up  their  ground  opposite  to  the 
Highlanders. 

The  deep  bell  of  the  Hotel  de  Yille  tolled  one.  The  solemn 
sound  rang  out  and  died  away  in  many  an  echo,  leaving  upon 
the  heart  a sense  of  some  unknown  depression;  and  there  was 
something  like  a knell  in  the  deep  cadence  of  its  bay;  and  over 
many  a cheek  a rapid  trace  of  gloomy  thought  now  passed;  and 
true — ^too  true,  alas! — ^how  many  now  listened  for  the  last 
time! 

“ March — march!”  passed  from  front  to  rear,  and,  as  the  bands 
burst  forth  again  in  strains  of  spirit-stirring  harmony,  the  Sev- 
enty-ninth moved  on;  the  Twenty-eighth  followed,  and  as  they 
debouched  from  the  “Place,”  the  Seventy-first  and  Ninety-sec- 
ond succeeded  them.  Like  wave  afterwave  the  tide  of  armed 
men  presided  on  and  mounted  the  steep  and  narrow  street 
toward  the  upper  town  of  Brussels.  Here  Pack’s  brigade  was 
forming  in  the  Place  Eoyale;  and  a crowd  of  staff  officers  dictat- 
ing orders,  and  writing  hurriedly  on  the  drum-heads,  were  also 
seen.  A troop  of  dragoons  stood  beside  their  horses  at  the  door 
of  the  Bellevue,  and  several  grooms  with  led  horses  walked  to 
and  fro. 

“ Ride  forward,  sir,  to  the  Bois  de  Cambre,”  said  Picton.  “ and 
pivot  the  troops  on  the  road  to  Mount  St.  Jean.  You  will  then 
wait  for  my  coming  up,  or  further  orders.” 

This  command,  which  was  given  to  me,  I hastened  to  obey; 
and  with  difficulty  forcing  my  way  through  the  opposing  crowd, 
at  length  reached  the  Namur  gate.  Here  I found  a detach- 
ment of  the  guard,  who  as  yet  had  got  no  orders  to  march,  and 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY, 


269 


were  somewhat  surprised  to  learn  of  the  forward  movement.  Ten 
minutes’  riding  brought  me  to  the  angle  of  the  wood,  whence  I 
wrote  a few  lines  to  mj  host  at  the  Bellevue,  desiring  him  to 
send  Mike  after  me  with  my  horses  and  my  kit. 

The  night  was  cold,  dark,  and  threatening;  the  wind  howled 
with  a low  and  wailing  cry  through  the  dark  pine  trees;  and, 
as  I i^tood  alone  and  in  solitude,  I had  time  to  think  of  the  event- 
ful hours  before  me  and  of  that  field  which,  ere  long,  was  to 
witness  the  triumph  or  the  downfall  of  my  country’s  arms.  The 
road  which  led  through  the  forest  of  Soignies  caught  an  addition- 
al gloom  from  the  dark,  dense  woods  around.  The  faint  moon 
only  showed  at  intervals;  and  a lowering  sky,  without  a single 
star,  stretched  above  us.  It  was  an  awful  and  solemn  thing  to 
hear  the  deep  and  thundering  roll  of  that  mighty  column, 
awakening  the  silent  forest  as  they  went.  So  hurried  was  the 
movement  that  we  had  scarcely  any  artillery,  and  that  of  the 
lightest  caliber;  but  the  crash  and  the  clank  of  the  cavalry;  the 
heavy,  monotonous  tramp  of  the  infantry  were  there;  and  as 
division  followed  after  division,  staff  officers  rode  hurriedly  to 
and  fro,  pressing  the  eager  troops  still  on. 

Move  up  there.  Ninety-fifth.  Ah,  Forty-second,  we’ve  work 
before  us,”  said  Picton,  as  he  rode  up  to  the  head  of  his  brigade. 
The  air  of  depression  which  usually  sat  upon  his  care-worn 
features  now  changed  for  a light  and  laughing  look;  while  his 
voice  was  softened  and  subdued  into  a low  and  pleasing  tone. 
Although  it  was  midsummer,  the  roads  were  heavy  and  deep 
with  mud.  For  some  weeks  previously  the  weather  had  been 
rainy;  and  this,  added  to  the  discomfort  of  the  night  march,  con- 
siderably increased  the  fatigue  of  the  troops.  Notwithstanding 
these  disadvantages,  not  a murmur  or  complaint  was  heard  on 
any  side. 

I’m  unco  glad  to  get  a blink  o’  them  onyhow,”  said  a tall, 
raw-boned  sergeant,  who  marched  beside  me. 

“ Faith,  and  may  be  you  won’t  be  over  pleased  at  the  expression 
of  their  faces  when  you  see  them,”  said  Mike,  wffiose  satisfaction 
at  the  prospect  before  him  was  still  as  great  as  that  of  any 
other  amid  the  thousands  there. 

Tlie  day  was  slowly  breaking,  as  a Prussian  officer,  splashed, 
and  covered  with  foam,  came  galloping  at  full  speed  past  us. 
While  I was  yet  conjecturing  what  might  be  the  intelligence  he 
brought.  Power  rode  up  to  my  side. 

“ We’re  in  for  it,  Charley,”  said  he.  “ The  whole  French  army 
are  in  march;  and  Bluciier’s  aid-de-camp,  wffio  has  arrived, 
gives  the  number  at  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men.  The 
Prussians  are  drawn  up  between  St.  Amand  and  Sambref;  and 
the  Nassau  and  Dutch  troops  are  at  Quatre  Bras,  both  expecting 
to  be  attacked.” 

“ Quatre  Bras  was  the  original  rallying  spot  for  our  troops, 
was  it  not  ?”  said  I. 

“Yes,  yes.  It  is  that  we  are  now  marching  upon;  but  our 
Prussian  fnend  seems  to  think  we  shall  arrive  full  late.  Strong 
French  corps  are  already  at  Fresnes,  under  the  command,  it  is 
said,  of  Marshal  Ney.” 


m 


Oil  A RLES  am  A LLE  i. 


The  great  object  of  the  British  Commander-in -Chief  was  to 
arrive  at  Quatre  Bras  in  sufidcient  time  to  effect  his  junction  with 
Blucher  before  a battle  should  be  fought.  To  effect  that  no  ex- 
ertion was  spared ; efforts  almost  superhuman  were  made;  for, 
however  prepared  for  a forward  movement,  it  w’as  impossible  to 
have  anticipated  anything  until  the  intentions  of  Napoleon  became 
clearly  manifest.  While  Nivellesand  Charleroi  were  exposed  to 
him  on  one  side,  Namur  lay  open  on  the  other;  and  he  could  either 
march  upon  Brussels  by  Mons  or  Hal,  or,  as  he  subsequently 
attempted,  by  Quatre  Bras  and  Waterloo.  No  sooner,  however, 
were  his  mtentions  unmasked,  and  the  line  of  his  operations 
manifested,  than  Lord  Wellington,  with  an  energy  equal  to  the 
mighty  occasion  that  demanded  it,  poured  down  with  the  whole 
force  under  his  command  to  meet  him. 

The  march  w^as  a most  distressing  one;  upward  of  three  and 
twenty  miles  with  deep  and  cut-up  roads,  in  hot.  oppressive 
weather,  in  a country  almost  destitute  of  water;  still  the  troops 
pressed  forward,  and  by  noon  came  within  hearing  of  the  heavy 
cannonade  in  front,  which  indicated  the  situation  of  the  battle. 
From  this  time  aid-de-camp  followed  aid-de-camp  in  quick 
succession,  who,  from  their  scared  looks  and  hurried  gestures, 
seemed  to  bode  iDut  ill-fortune  to  the  cause  we  caied  for.  What 
the  precise  situation  of  the  rival  armies  might  be  we  knew  not; 
but  we  heard  the  French  were  in  overwhelming  numbers;  that 
the  Dutch  troops  had  abandoned  their  position,  the  Hanoverians 
being  driven  back;  the  Duke  of  Brunswick,  the  brave  sovereign 
of  a gallant  people,  fell,  pharging  at  the  head  of  his  black  hus- 
sars. From  one  phrase,  which  constantly  met  our  ears,  it  seem- 
ed that  theBois  de  Boussu  was  the  key  of  the  position;  tljis  had 
been  w^on  and  lost  repeatedly  by  both  sides,  and,  as  we  neared 
the  battle-field,  a dispatch  hurriedly  announced  to  Picton  the 
importance  of  at  once  recovering  this  contested  post.  The 
Ninety -fifth  were  ordered  up  to  the  attack.  Scarcely  w^as  the 
word  given,  when  fatigue,  thirst,  and  exhaustion  were  forgotten; 
with  one  cheer  the  gallant  regiment  formed  into  line,  and  ad- 
vanced upon  the  w^ood.  Meanwhile,  the  Highland  brigade 
moved  down  toward  the  right;  the  Royal  and  the  Twenty- 
eighth  debouched  upon  the  left  of  the  road;  and  in  less  than 
half  an  hour  after  our  arrival  our  whole  force  was  in  action. 

There  is  something  appalling,  to  the  bravest  army,  in  coming 
up  to  battle  at  the  time  when  an  overwhelming  and  conquering 
foe  are  carrying  victory  triumphant  before  them;  such  was  our 
position  at  Quatre  Bras.  Bravely  and  gloriously  as  the  forces  of 
the  Prince  of  Orange  fought,  the  day,  however,  was  not  theirs. 
The  Bois  de  Boussu,  which  opened  to  the  enemy  the  road  to 
Brussels,  was  held  by  their  tirailleurs;  the  valley  to  the  right  was 
rode  over  by  their  mounted  squadrons,  who  with  lance  and  saber 
carried  all  before  them;  their  dark  columns  pressed  steadily  on; 
and  a death- dealing  artillery  swept  the  allied  ranks  from  flank  to 
flank.  Such  was  the  field  when  the  British  arrived,  and,  throw- 
ing themselves  into  squares,  opposed  their  unaided  force  to  the 
dreadful  charges  of  the  enemy.  The  batteries  showered  down 
their  storms  of  grape;  Milhaud's  heavy  dragoons,  assisted  by 


CHARLES  am  ALLEY. 


271 


crowds  of  lancers,  rushed  upon  the  squares,  but  they  stood  un- 
broken and  undaunted,  as  sometimes  upon  tftree  sides  of  their 
position  the  infuriated  horsemen  of  the  enemy  came  down.  Once 
and  once  only  were  the  French  successful;  the  Forty-second, 
who  were  stationed  amid  tall  corn-fields,  were  surrounded  with 
cavalry  before  they  knew  it;  the  word  was  given  to  form  square. 

The  lancers  were  already  among  them;  and,  fighting  back  to 
back,  the  gallant  Highlanders  met  the  foe.  Fresh  numbers 
poured  down  upon  them,  and  already  half  the  regiment  was  dis- 
abled and  their  colonel  killed;  these  brave  fellows  were  rescued 
by  the  Forty-fourth,  who,  throwing  in  a withering  volley,  fixed 
bayonets  and  charged.  Meanwhile,  the  Ninety-fifth  had  won 
and  lost  the  wood,  which,  now  in  the  possession  of  the  French 
tirailleurs,  threatened  to  turn  the  left  of  our  position.  It  was  at 
this  time  that  a body  of  cavalry  were  seen  standing  to  the  left 
of  the  Enghien  road,  as  if  in  observation.  An  ofiicer  sent  for- 
ward to  reconnoiter,  returned  with  the  intelligence  that  they 
were  British  troops,  for  he  had  seen  their  red  uniforms. 

“I  can’t  think  it,  sir,”  said  Picton.  “It  is  hardly  possible 
that  any  regiment  from  Enghien  could  have  arrived  already. 
Ride  forward,  O'Malley,  and  if  they  be  our  fellows,  let  them 
carry  that  height  yonder;  there  are  two  guns  there  cutting  the 
Ninety-second  to  pieces.” 

I put  spurs  to  my  horse,  cleared  the  road  at  once,  and  dashing 
across  the  open  space  to  the  left  of  the  wood,  rode  on  in  the 
direction  of  the  horsemen.  When  I came  within  the  distance 
of  three  hundred  yards  I examined  them  with  my  glass,  and 
could  plainly  detect  the  scarlet  coats  and  bright  helmets.  Ha, 
thought  I,  the  First  Dragoon  Guards,  no  doubt.  Muttering  to 
myself  thus  much,  I galloped  straight  on,  and  waving  my  hand 
as  I came  near,  announced  that  I was  the  bearer  of  an  order. 
Scarcely  had  I done  so,  when  four  horsemen,  dashing  spurs  in 
their  steeds,  plunged  hastily  out  from  the  line,  and  before  I 
could  speak  surrounded  me^  while  the  foremost  called  out,  as 
he  flourished  bis  saber  above  my  head:  “ Rendez  vous  prisonnier,^^ 
At  the  same  moment  I was  seized  on  each  side,  and  led  back  a 
captive  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy. 

“We  guess  you  mistake,  captaine,”  said  the  French  officer 
before  whom  I was  brought.  “ We  are  the  regiment  of  Berg, 
and  our  scarlet  uniform  cost  us  dearly  enough  yesterday.” 

This  allusion.  I afterward  learned,  was  in  reference  to  a charge 
by  a cuirassier  regiment,  which,  in  mistaking  them  for  English, 
poured  a volley  into  them,  and  killed  and  wounded  above  twenty 
of  their  number 


CHAPTER  CXVIII. 

LES  QUATRE  BRAS. 

Those  who  have  visited  the  field  of  Quatre  Bras  will  re- 
member that  on  the  left  of  the  high  road,  and  nearly  at  the 
extremity  of  the  Bois  de  Boussu,  stands  a large  Flemish  farm- 
house, whose  high  pitched  roof,  pointed  gables  and  quaint  old- 
fashioned  chimneys,  remind  one  of  the  architecture  so  frequent- 


212 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


Ij  seen  in  Tinier's  pictures.  The  house,  which  with  its  depend 
encies  of  stablesj^granaries  and  out-houses,  resembles  a little 
village,  is  surrounded  by  a large  straggling  orchard  of  aged 
fruit-trees,  through  which  the  approach  from  the  high  road 
leads.  The  interior  of  this  quaint  dwelling,  like  all  those  of  its 
class,  is  only  remarkable  for  a succession  of  small,  dark,  low- 
ceiled  roomSj  leading  one  into  another;  their  gloomy  aspects 
increased  by  the  dark  oak  furniture,  the  heavy  armories,  and 
old-fashioned  presses,  carved  in  the  grotesque  tastes  of  the 
sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries.  Those  who  visit  it  now 
may  mark  the  traces  of  cannon  shot  here  and  there  through  the 
building;  more  than  one  deep  crack  w ill  attest  the  force  of  the 
dread  artillery;  still  the  traveler  will  feel  struck  with  the  rural 
peace  and  quietude  of  the  scene;  the  speckled  oxen  that  stand 
lowing  in  the  «leep  meadows;  the  splash  of  the  silvery  trout  as 
he  sports  in  the  bright  stream  that  ripples  along  over  its  gravelly 
bed;  the  cawing  of  the  old  rooks  in  the  tall  beech  trees;  but, 
more  than  all,  the  happy  laugh  of  children — speak  of  the  spot 
as  one  of  retired  and  tranquil  beauty;  yet  when  my  eyes  opened 
upon  it  on  the  morning  of  the  seventeenth  of  June,  the  scene 
presented  features  of  a widely  different  interest.  The  day  was 
breaking  as  the  deep,  full  sound  of  the  French  bugles  announced 
the  reveille;  forgetful  of  where  I was,  I sprang  from  my  bed 
and  rushed  to  the  window;  the  prospect  before  me  at  once  re- 
called me  to  my  recollection,  and  I remembered  that  I was  a 
prisoner.  The  exciting  events  around  me  left  me  but  little 
time  and  as  little  inclination  to  think  over  my  old  misfortunes; 
and  I watched,  with  all  the  interest  of  a soldier,  the  move- 
ments of  the  French  troops  in  the  orchard  beneath. 

A squadron  of  dragoons,  who  seemed  to  have  passed  the  night 
beside  their  horses,  lay  stretched  or  seated  in  all  the  picturesque 
groupings  of  a bivouac;  some  already  up  and  stirring;  others 
leaned  half  listlessly  upon  their  elbows,  and  looked  as  if  unwill- 
ing to  believe  the  night  was  over;  and  some  stretched  in  deep 
slumber  woke  not  with  the  noise  and  tumult  around  them.  The 
room  in  which  I was  confined  looked  out  upon  the  road  to  Char- 
leroi; I could,  therefore,  see  the  British  ti’oops;  and,  as  the  French 
army  had  fallen  back  during  the  night,  only  an  advanced  guard 
maintaining  the  position,  I was  left  to  my  unaided  conjectures 
as  to  the  fortune  of  the  preceding  day  of  battle.  What  a period 
of  anxiety  and  agitation  was  that  morning  to  me,  and  what  I 
would  not  have  given  to  learn  the  result  of  the  action  at  the 
moment  of  my  capture!  Stubborn  as  our  resistance  had  been, 
we  were  evidently  getting  the  worst  of  it;  and,  if  the  Guards  had 
not  arrived  in  time,  I knew  we  must  have  been  beaten. 

I walked  up  and  down  my  narrow  room,  tortured  and  agonized 
by  my  doubts,  now  stopping  to  reason  over  the  possibilities  of 
success,  now  looking  from  the  wdndow  to  try  if,  m the  gesture 
and  bearing  of  those  without,  I could  conjecture  anything  that 
passed.  Too  w'ell  I knew  the  reckless  character  of  the  French 
soldiers,  in  defeat  as  in  victory,  to  put  much  confidence  in  their 
bearing.  While,  however,  I watched  them  with  an  eager  eye,  I 
heard  the  tramp  of  horsemen  coming  along  tlfe  paved  causeway. 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


S78 


From  the  moment  my  ear  caught  the  sound  to  that  of  their 
arrival  at  the  gate  of  the  orchard,  but  few  minutes  elapsed;  their 
pace  was,  indeed,  a severe  one,  and,  as  they  galloped  through  th^ 
narrow  path  that  led  to  the  farm-hour  e,  they  never  drew  rein  tdl 
they  reached  the  porch.  The  party  consisted  of  about  a dozen 
persons,  whose  plumed  hats  bespoke  them  staff  officers;  but  their 
uniforms  were  concealed  beneath  their  great  coats.  As  they 
came  along  the  pickets  sprang  to  their  feet,  and  the  guard  at  the 
door  beneath  presented  arms;  this  left  no  doubt  upon  my  mind 
that  some  officer  of  rank  was  among  them,  and,  as  I knew  that 
Ney  himself  commanded  on  the  preceding  day,  I thought  it 
might  be  he.  The  sound  of  voices  beneath  informed  me  that  the 
party  occupied  the  room  under  that  in  which  I was,  and,  although 
I listened  attentively,  I could  hear  nothing  but  the  confused 
murmur  of  persons  conversing  together  without  detecting  even  a 
word.  My  thoughts  now  fell  into  another  channel,  and,  as  I 
ruminated  over  my  old  position,  I heard  the  noise  of  the  sentry 
at  my  door  as  he  brought  his  musket  to  the  shoulder,  and  the 
next  moment  an  officer  in  the  uniform  of  the  chasseur  of  the  guard 
entered.  Bowing  politely  as  he  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the 
room,  he  addressed  me  thus; 

‘‘You  speak  French,  sir?”  and  as  I replied  in  the  affirmative, 
continued; 

“Will  you  then  have  the  goodness  to  follow  me  this  way?” 

Although  burning  with  anxiety  to  learn  what  had  taken  place, 
yet  somehow  I could  not  bring  myself  to  ask  the  question.  A 
secret  pride  mingled  with  my  fear  that  all  had  not  gone  well 
with  us,  and  I durst  not  expose  myself  to  hear  of  our  defeat 
from  the  lips  of  an  enemy.  I had  barely  time  to  ask  into  whose 
presence  1 was  about  to  be  usl^ered,  when,  with  a slight  smile  of 
a strange  meaning,  he  opened  the  door  and  introduced  me  into 
the  saloon.  Although  I had  seen  at  least  twelve  or  fourteen 
horsemen  arrive,  there  were  but  three  persons  in  the  room  as  I 
entered.  One  of  these,  who  sat  writing  at  a small  table  near  the 
window,  never  lifted  his  head  on  my  entrance,  but  continued 
assiduously  his  occupation. 

Another,  a tall,  fine-looking  man,  of  some  sixty  years  or  up- 
ward, whose  high  bald  forehead  and  drooping  mustache,  'white  , 
as  snow,  looked  in  every  way  the  old  soldier  of  the  empire,  stood 
leaning  upon  his  saber  while  the  third,  whose  stature,  somewhat 
below  the  middle  size,  was  yet  cast  in  a strong  and  muscular 
mold,  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  holding  on  his  arms  the  skirts 
of  a gray  surtout,  which  he  wore  over  his  uniform ; his  legs  were 
cased  in  the  tall  bottes  a Veciiyer,  w’orn  by  the  chasseur  o.u  cheval, 
and  on  his  head  a low  cocked  hat,  without  plume  or  feather, 
completed  his  costume.  There  was  something  which,  at  the 
very  moment  of  my  entrance,  struck  me  as  uncommon  in  his  air 
and  bearing,  so  much  so  that  wdien  my  eyes  had  once  rested  on 
his  pale  but  placid  countenance,  his  regular,  handsome,  but 
somewhat  stern  features,  I totally  forgot  the  presence  of  the 
others,  and  looked  only  at  him. 

“What’s  your  rank,  sir?”  said  he  hundedly,  and  with  a tone 
which  bespoke  command. 


274 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


‘‘  I have  none  at  present,  save 

“ Why  do  you  wear  epaulets,  then,  sir  ?’’  said  he  harshly,  while 
from  his  impatient  look  and  hurried  gesture  I saw  he  put  no 
faith  in  my  reply. 

“ I am  an  aid-de-camp  to  General  Picton,  but  without  regi- 
mental rank.” 

“ What,  was  the  British  force  under  arms  yesterday?” 

“ I do  not  feel  myself  at  liberty  to  give  you  any  information 
as  to  the  number  or  the  movements  of  our  army.” 

^‘Diantre!  DiantreP'  said  he,  slapping  his  boot  with  his 
horsewhip,  “ do  you  know  what  you’ve  been  saying  there,  eh? 
Cambronne,  you  heard  him,  did  you  ?” 

“Yes,  sire;  and  if  your  Majesty  would  permit  me  to  deal  with 
him,  I would  have  his  information,  if  he  possesses  any,  and  that 
ere  long,  too.” 

“ Eh,  gaillardP^  said  he,  laughing,  as  he  pinched  the  old  Gen- 
eral’s ear  in  jest,  “ I believe  you,  with  all  my  heart.” 

The  full  truth  flashed  upon  my  mind.  I was  in  the  presence 
of  the  Emperor  himself.  As,  however,  up  to  this  moment,  I 
was  unconscious  of  his  presence,  I resolved  now  to  affect  igno- 
rance of  it  throughout. 

“ Had  you  dispatches,  sir?”  said  he,  turning  toward  me  with  a 
look  of  stern  severity. 

“ Were  any  dispatches  found  upon  him  when  he  was  taken?” 
This  latter  question  was  directed  to  the  aid-de-camp  who  intro- 
duced me,  and  who  still  remained  at  the  door. 

“ No,  sire,  nothing  was  found  upon  him  except  this  locket.” 

As  he  said  these  words,  he  placed  in  Napoleon’s  hands  the 
keepsake  whicli  St.  Croix  had  left  with  me  years  before  in  Spain, 
and' which,  as  the  reader  may  remember,  was  a miniature  of  the 
Empress  Josephine. 

The  moment  the  Emperor  threw  his  eyes  upon  it,  the  flush 
which  excitement  had  called  into  his  cheek,  disappeared  at  once; 
he  became  pale  as  death — his  very  lips  as  bloodless  as  his  wan 
cheek. 

“ Leave  me,  Lefevre;  leave  me,  Cambronne,  for  a moment;  I 
will  speak  with  this  gentleman  alone.” 

As  the  door  closed  upon  them  he  leaned  his  arm  upon  the 
mantel-piece,  and  with  his  head  sunk  upon  his  bosom,  remained 
some  moments  without  speaking. 

“ En  mauvais  augureP'  muttered  he  within  his  teeth,  as  his 
piercing  gaze  was  riveted  upon  the  picture  before  him.  “ Voila 
la  troisieme  fois;  peuUetre  la  dernier eE  Then  suddenly  rousing 
himself,  he  advanced  close  to  me,  and  seizing  me  by  the  arm 
with  a grasp  like  iron,  inquired  : 

“ How  came  you  by  this  picture?  The  truth,  sir;  mark  me, 
the  truth.” 

Without  showing  any  sign  of  feeling  hui*t  at  the  insinuation  of 
his  question,  I detailed,  in  as  few  words  as  I could,  the  circum- 
stance by  which  the  locket  became  mine.  Long  before  1 had 
concluded,  however,  I could  mark  that  his  attention  flagged  and 
Anally  wandered  far  away  from  the  matter  before  him. 

“Why  will  you  not  give  me  the  information  I look  for?  I 


CB ARLES  a MALLET. 


seek  for  no  breach  of  faith.  The  campaign  is  all  biat  over.  The 
Prussians  were  beaten  at  Ligny,  their  army  routed,  their  artillery 
captured,  ten  thousand  prisoners  taken.  Your  troops  and  the 
Dutch  were  conquered  yesterday,  and  they  are  in  full  retreat  on 
Brussels.  By  to-morrow  evening  I shall  date  by  bulletin  from 
the  palace  at  Lacken.  Antwerp  will  be  in  my  possession  within 
twenty-four  hours.  Namar  is  already  mine.  Cambronne, 
Lefevi-e,”  cried  he,  Cet  homme-la  ne  sait  Hen,''*  pointing  to  me 
as  he  spoke.  ‘‘Let  us  see  the  other.”  With  this  he  motioned 
slightly  with  his  hand,  as  a sign  for  me  to  withdraw,  and  the 
next  moment  I was  once  more  in  the  solitude  of  my  prison- 
room,  thinking  over  the  singular  interview  I had  just  had  with 
the  great  Emperor. 

How  anxiously  pass  the  hours  of  one  who,  deprived  of  other 
means  of  information,  is  left  to  form  his  conjectures  by  some 
passing  object,  or  some  chance  murmur.  The  things  which  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  life  are  passed  by  unnoticed  and  unre- 
garded, are  now  matters  of  moment;  with  what  scrutiny  he 
examines  the  features  of  those  whom  he  does  not  question;  "with 
what  patient  ear  he  listens  to  each  passing  word;  thus,  to  me,  a 
prisoner,  the  hours  went  by  tardily,  yet  anxiously;  no  saber 
clanked;  no  war-horse  neighed;  no  heavy- booted  cuirassier 
tramped  in  the  court-yard  beneath  my  window,  without  setting 
a hundred  conjectures  afloat  as  to  what  v^as  about  to  happen. 
For  some  time  there  had  been  a considerable  noise  and  bustle  in 
and  about  the  dwelling.  Horsemen  came  and  went  continually. 
The  sounds  of  galloping  could  be  heard  along  the  paved  cause- 
way; then  the  challenge  of  the  sentry  at  the  gate;  then  the 
nearer  tread  of  approaching  steps  and  many  voices  speaking 
together,  would  seem  to  indicate  that  some  messenger  had  ar- 
rived wdth  dispatches.  At  length  all  the  sounds  became  hushed 
and  still;  no  longer  were  the  voices  heard;  and,  except  the 
measured  tread  of  the  heavy  cuirassier,  as  he  paced  on  the  flags 
beneath,  nothing  was  to  be  heard.  My  si  ate  of  suspense,  doubly 
greater  now  tlian  when  the  noise  and  tumult  suggested  food 
for  conjecture,  continued  now  till  toward  noon,  when  a soldier 
in  undress  brought  me  some  breakfast,  and  told  me  to  prepare 
speedily  for  the  road. 

Scarcely  had  he  left  the  room,  when  the  rumbling  noise  of 
wagons  was  heard  below,  and  a train  of  artillery  carts  moved 
into  the  little  court-yard,  loaded  with  wounded  men.  It  was  a 
sad  and  frightful  sight  to  see  those  poor  fellows,  as,  crammed 
side  by  side  in  the  straw  of  the  charette  they  lay,  their  ghastly 
wounds  opening  with  every  motion  of  the  wagon,  while  their 
wan,  pale  faces  were  convulsed  with  agony  and  suffering;  of 
every  rank,  from  the  sous-lieutenant  to  the  humble  soldier,  from 
every  arm  of  the  service,  from  the  heavy  cuirassier  of  the  guard 
to  the  light  and  intrepid  tirailleur,  they  w^ere  there.  I well  re- 
member one,  an  artilleryman  of  the  guard,  whom,  as  they  lifted 
him  forth  from  the  cart,  presented  the  horrifying  spectacle  of  one, 
both  of  whose  legs  had  been  carried  away  by  a cannon  shot;  pale, 
cold,  and  corpse-like,  he  lay  in  tteir  arms;  his  head  fell  heavily 
to  one  side,  and  his  arms  fell  passively,  as  in  death.  It  was  at 


m 


OHAELES  SMALLEY. 


this  moment  a troop  of  lancers,  the  advance  guard  of  D’Erlons’ 
division  came  trotting  up  the  road;  the  cry  of  “ Vive  VEmpereurr 
burst  from  them  as  they  approached;  its  echo  rang  within  the 
walls  of  the  farm-house,  when  suddenly  the  dying  man,  as 
though  some  magic  touch  had  called  him  back  to  life  and  vigor, 
sprang  up  erect  between  his  bearers,  his  filmy  eye  flashed  fire,  a 
burning  spot  of  red  coloring  his  bloodless  cheek;  he  cast  one  wild 
and  hurried  look  around  him,  like  one  called  back  from  death  to 
look  upon  the  living;  and,  as  he  waived  his  blood-stained  hand 
above  his  head,  shouted  in  a heart-piercing  cry,  “ Vive  VEmpe- 
reurr The  effort  was  his  last.  It  was  the  expiring  tribute  of 
allegiance  to  the  chief  he  adored.  The  blood  spouted  in  cataracts 
from  his  half-closed  wounds,  a convulsive  spasm  worked  through 
his  frame,  his  eyes  rolled  fearfully,  as  his  outstretched  hands 
seemed  striving  to  clutch  some  object  before  him— and  he  was 
dead.  Fresh  arrivals  of  wounded  continued  to  pour  in;  and 
now  I thought  I could  detect  at  intervals  the  distant  noise  of  a 
cannonade;  the  wind,  however,  was  from  the  southward,  and 
the  sounds  were  too  indistinct  to  be  relied  on. 

Allons!  allons!  mon  cherV  said  a rough  but  good-humored 
looking  fellow,  as  he  strode  into  my  room;  he  was  the  Quarter- 
master of  Milhaud’s  dragoons,  under  whose  care  I was  now 
placed,  and  came  to  inform  me  that  we  were  to  set  out  imme- 
diately. 

Monsieur  Bonnard  was  a character  in  his  way;  and  if  it  were 
not  so  near  the  conclusion  of  my  history,  I should  like  to  present 
him  to  my  readers.  As  it  is,  I shall  merely  say  he  was  a thor- 
ough specimen  of  one  class  of  his  countrymen — a loud  talker,  a 
louder  swearer,  a vaporing,  boasting,  overbearing,  good-natured, 
and  even  soft-hearted  fellow,  who  firmly  believed  tljat  French- 
men were  the  climax  of  the  species,  and  Napoleon  the  climax  of 
Frenchmen.  Being  a great  hazard,  he  speedily  told  me  all  that 
had  taken  place  during  the  last  tw^o  days.  From  him  I learned 
that  the  Prussians  had  really  been  beaten  at  Ligny,  and  had 
fallen  back,  he  knew  not  where;  they  were,  however,  he  said, 
hotly  pursued  by  Grouchy  with  thirty-five  thousand  men,  while 
the  Emperor  himself  was  now  following  the  British  and  Dutch 
armies  with  seventy  thousand  more. 

‘‘ You  see,”  continued  he,  V affaire  estfinie:  who  can  resist 

the  Emperor  ?” 

These  were  sad  tidings  for  me,  and  although  I did  not  place 
implicit  confidence  in  my  informant,  I had  still  my  fears  that 
much  of  what  he  said  was  true. 

“And  the  British,  now,”  said  I,  “what  direction  have  they 
taken  ?” 

“ Bah  I they’re  in  retreat  on  Brussels,  and  will  probably  capitu- 
late to-morrow.” 

“ Capitulatel” 

“ Oui,  oui:  ne  vous  fachez  pas,  camarade,^'*  said  he,  laughing. 
“What  could  you  do  against  Napoleon?  you  did  not  expect  to 
beat  him,  surely  ? But  come,  we  must  move  on;  I have  my  or- 
ders to  bring  you  to  Planchenoit  this  evening,  and  our  horses  are 
tired  enough  already.” 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


m 


“Mine,  methinks,  should  be  fresh,’*  said  L 
Parbleu  non, replied  he;  “ he  has  twice  made  the  journey 
to  Frasnes  this  morning  with  dispatches  for  Marshal  Ney;  the 
Emperor  is  enraged  with  the  Marshal  for  having  retreated  last 
night,  having  the  wood  in  his  possession;  he  says  be  should  have 
waited  till  daybreak,  and  then  fallen  upon  your  retreating  col- 
umns. As  it  "is,  you  are  getting  away  without  much  loss.  Sa- 
cristie,  that  was  a fine  charge  1”  These  last  words  he  muttered 
to  himself,  adding,  between  his  teeth,  “ sixty-four  killed  and 
wounded.” 

“ What  was  that?  who  were  they  ?”  said  I. 

“ Our  fellows,”  replied  he  frankly;  “ the  Emperor  ordered  up 
two  twelve-pounders,'  and  eight  squadrons  of  lancers;  they  fell 
upon  your  light  dragoons  in  a narrow  part  of  the  high  road. 
But  suddenly  we  heard  a noise  in  front;  your  hussars  fell  back, 
and  a column  of  your  heavy  dragoons  came  thundering  down 
upon  us.  ParbleuI  they  swept  over  us  as  if  we  were  broken  in- 
fantry; and  there  I there!”  said  he,  pointing  to  the  court  yard, 
from  whence  the  groans  of  the  wounded  still  rose,  “there  are 
the  fruits  of  that  terrible  charge.” 

I could  not  restrain  an  outbreak  of  triumphant  pleasure  at 
this  gallant  feat  of  my  countrymen. 

“Yes,  yes,”  said  the  honest  Quartermaster,  “it  was  a fine 
thing;  but  a heavy  reckoning  is  at  hand.  But  come  now,  let 
us  take  the  road.” 

In  a few  moments  more  I found  myself  seated  upon  a heavy 
Norman  horse,  whose  lumbering  demi-peak  saddle  was  nearly 
cleft  in  two  by  a saber  cut. 

“Ay,  ay,”  said  Monsieur  Bonnard,  as  he  saw  my  eye  fixed  on 
the  spot,  “ it  was  one  of  your  fellows  did  that,  and  the  same  cut 
clove  poor  Pierre  from  the  neck  to  the  seat.” 

“ I hope,”  said  I,  laughing,  “ the  saddle  may  not  prove  an  un- 
lucky one.” 

“No,  no,”  said  the  Frenchman,  seriously;  “it  has  paid  its 
debt  to  fate.” 

As  we  pressed  on  our  road,  which,  broken  by  tlie  heavy  guns 
and  plowed  up  in  many  places  by  the  artillery,  was  nearly  im- 
passable, we  could  distinctly  hear,  from  time  to  time,  the  distant 
boom  of  the  large  guns,  as  the  retiring  and  pursuing  armies  re- 
plied to  each  other;  while  behind  us,  but  still  a long  way  off,  a 
dark  mass  appeared  on  the  horizon;  they  were  the  advancing 
columns  of  Ney’s  division. 

“ Have  the  troops  come  in  contact  more  than  once  this  morn- 
ing?” 

“Not  closely,”  said  the  Quartermaster;  “the  armies  have 
kept  a respectful  distance;  they  were  like  nothing  I can  think 
of,”  said  the  figurative  Frenchman,  “ except  two  hideous  serpents 
wallowing  in  mire,  and  vomiting  at  each  other  whole  rivers  of 
fire  and  flame.” 

As  we  approached  Planchenoit,  we  came  up  to  the  rear-guard 
of  the  French  army;  from  them  we  learned  that  Ney’s  division, 
consisting  of  the  Eighth  Corps,  had  joined  the  Emperor;  that  the 
British  were  still  in  retreat,  but  that  nothing  of  any  importance 


<JH ARLES  aMALLEt. 


eTS 

had  occurred  between  the  rival  armies;  the  French  merely  firing 
their  heavy  guns  from  time  to  time,  to  ascertain  by  the  reply  the 
position  of  the  retreating  forces;  the  rain  poured  dowq  in  torrents; 
gusts  of  cold  and  stormy  wind  swept  across  the  wide  plains,  or 
moaned  sorrowfully  through  the  dense  forest.  As  I rode  on  by 
the  side  of  my  companion,  I could  not  help  remarking  how  little 
the  effects  of  a fatiguing  march  and  unfavorable  weather  were 
apparent  on  those  around  me.  The  spirit  of  excited  gayety 
pervaded  every  rank;  and,  unlike  the  stern  features  w^hich  the 
discipline  of  our  service  enforces,  the  French  soldiers  were  talk- 
ing, laughing,  and  even  singing  as  they  marched;  the  canteens 
passed  freely  from  hand  to  hand,  and  jests  and  toasts  flew  from 
front  to  rear  along  the  dark  columns;  many  carried  their  loaves 
of  dark  rye  bread  on  the  tops  of  their  bayonets;  and  to  look  upon 
that  noisy  and  tumultuous  mass  as  they  poured  along,  it  would 
have  needed  a practiced  eye  to  believe  them  the  most  disciplined 
of  European  armies. 

The  sun  was  just  setting,  as  mounting  a ridge  of  land  beside 
the  high  road,  my  companion  pointed  with  his  finger  to  a small 
farm-house,  which,  standing  alone  in  the  plain,  commands  an 
extensive  view  on  every  side  of  it. 

“ Theje.”  said  he,  ‘‘there  is  the  quartier- general; the  Emperor 
sleeps  there  to-night;  the  King  of  Holland  will  afford  him  abed 
to-morrow  night.” 

The  dark  shadows  of  the  coming  night  were  rapidly  falling  as 
I strained  my  eyes  to  trace  the  British  position.  A hollow  rum- 
bling sound  announced  the  movement  of  artillery  to  our  front. 

“What  is  it,  Arnotte?”  said  the  Quartermaster  to  a dragoon 
officer  who  rode  past. 

“ It  is  nothing,”  replied  the  other,  laughing,  “but  a ruse  of 
the  Emperor;  he  wishes  to  ascertain  if  the  enemy  are  in  force, 
or  if  we  have  only  a strong  rear  guard  before  us.” 

As  he  spoke  fifteen  heavy  guns  opened  their  fire,  and  the  still 
air  reverberated  with  a loud  thunder;  the  sound  had  not  died 
away,  the  very  smoke  lay  yet  heavily  upon  the  moist  earth, 
when  forty  pieces  of  British  cannon  rang  out  their  answer,  and 
the  very  plain  trembled  beneath  the  shock. 

“ Ha!  they  are  there,  then,”  exclaimed  the  dragoon  as  his  eyes 
flashed  with  ecstasy.  “Look!  see!  the  artillery  are  limbering 
up  already.  The  Emperor  is  satisfied.” 

And  so  it  was;  a dark  column  of  twelve  hundred  horse  that  ac- 
companied the  guns  into  the  plain  now  wheeled  slowly  round,  and 
wound  their  long  track  far  away  to  the  right.  The  rain  fell  in  tor- 
rents; the  wind  was  hushed,  and,  as  the  night  fell  in  darkness,  the 
columns  moved  severally  to  their  destinations.  The  bivouacs  were 
formed;  the  watch-fires  were  lighted,  and  seventy  thousand 
men  and  two  hundred  pieces  of  cannon  occupied  the  heights  of 
Planchenoit. 

“ My  orders  are  to  bring  you  to  La  Caillou,”  said  the  Quarter- 
master; “ and  if  you  can  only  spur  your  jaded  horse  into  a trot 
we  shall  soon  reach  it.” 

About  a hundred  yards  from  the  little  farm-house  stood  a 
small  cottage  of  a peasant.  Here  some  officers  of  Marshal 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY.  279 

Soult’s  staff  had  taken  up  their  quarters;  and  thither  my  guide 
now  bent  his  steps. 

Comment!  Bonnard,'*^  said  an  aid-de-camp  as  we  rode  up, 
“ another  prisoner.  Sacre  bleu!  we  shall  have  the  whole  British 
staff  among  us.  You  are  in  better  luck  than  your  countryman, 
the  General,  I hope,”  said  the  aid-de  camp;  “ his  is  a sad  "affair, 
and  I am  sorry  for  it,  too;  he’s  a fine,  soldier-like  looking  feh 
low.” 

‘^Pray,  what  has  happened?”  said  I.  “To  what  do  you 
allude?” 

“ Merely  to  one  of  your  people  who  has  just  been  taken  with 
some  letters  and  papers  of  Bourmont’s  in  his  possession.  The 
Emperor  is  in  no  very  amicable  humor  toward  that  traitor,  and 
resolves  to  pay  off  some  of  his  debt  on  his  British  correspond- 
ent.” 

“ How  cruel!  how  unjust!” 

“Why,  yes,  it  is  hard,  I confess,  to  he  fusille  for  the  fault  of 
another.  Mais^  que  voulez  votes 

“And  when  is  this  atrocious  act  to  take  place?” 

“By  daybreak  to-moiTow,”  said  he,  bowing  as  he  turned  to- 
ward the  hut.  “Meanwhile,  let  me  counsel  you,  if  you  would 
not  make  another  of  the  party,  to  reserve  your  indignation  for 
your  retm-n  to  England.” 

“Come  along,”  said  the  Quartermaster.  “I  find  they  have 
got  quarters  for  you  in  the  granary  of  the  farm.  I’ll  not  forget 
you  at  supper- time.” 

So  saying,  he  gave  his  horse  to  an  orderly,  and  led  me  by  a 
little  path  to  the  back  entrance  of  the  dwelling.  Had  I time  or 
inclination  for  such  a scene,  I might  have  lingered  long  to  gaze 
at  the  spectacle  before  me.  The  guard  held  their  bivouac  around 
the  quarters  of  the  Emperor;  ancj  here,  beside  the  watch-fires,  sat 
the  bronzed  and  scarred  veterans  who  had  braved  every  death 
and  danger  from  the  Pyramids  to  the  Kremlin.  On  every  side  I 
heard  the  names  of  those  whom  history  has  already  consigned  to 
immortality;  and  as  the  fitful  blaze  of  a wood-fire  flashed  from 
within  the  house,  I could  mark  the  figure  of  one  who,  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  walked  leisurely  to  and  fro,  his  head 
leaned  a little  forward,  as  though  in  deep  thought;  but  as  the 
light  fell  upon  his  pale  and  placid  features,  there  was  nothing 
there  to  indicate  the  stormy  strife  of  hope  and  fear  that  raged 
beneath.  From  the  rapid  survey  I took  round,  I was  aroused  by 
an  officer,  who,  saluting  me,  politely  desired  me  to  follow  him. 
We  mounted  a flight  of  stone  steps,  which,  outside  the  wall  of 
the  building,  led  to  the  upper  story  of  a large,  but  ruined  granary; 
here  a sentry  was  posted,  who,  permitting  us  to  pass  forward,  I 
found  myself  in  a small,  mean-looking  apartment,  whose  few 
articles  of  coarse  furniture  were  dimly  lighted  by  the  feeble 
glimmer  of  a lamp.  At  the  further  end  of  the  room  sat  a man, 
wrapped  in  a large  blue  cavalry  cloak,  whose  face,  covered  with 
his  hands  as  he  bent  downward,  was  completely  concealed  from 
view;  the  noise  of  the  opening  door  did  not  appear  to  arouse  him, 
nor  did  he  notice  my  approach.  As  I entered,  a faint  sigh  broke 


280  CHARLES  OMALLEY 

from  him  as  he  turned  his  back  upon  the  light;  but  he  spoke  not 
a word, 

I sat  for  some  time  in  silence,  unwilling  to  obtrude  myself 
upon  the  sorrows  of  one  to  whom  I was  unknown;  and,  as  I 
walked  up  and  down  the  gloomy  chamber,  my  thoughts  became 
riveted  so  completely  upon  my  own  fortunes,  that  I ceased  to  re- 
member my  fellow  prisoner.  The  hours  passed  thus  lazily  along, 
when  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  an  officer  in  the  dress  of  a 
lancer  of  the  guard  stood  for  an  instant  before  me,  and  then, 
springing  forward,  clasped  me  by  both  hands,  and  called  out: 

“Charles,  mon  ami,  cest  hien  toiV* 

The  voice  recalled  to  my  recollection  what  his  features,  altered 
by  time  and  years,  had  failed  to  do.  It  was  Jules  St.  Croix,  my 
former  prisoner  in  the  Peninsula.  I cannot  paint  the  delight 
with  which  1 saw  him  again;  his  presence,  now,  while  it  brought 
back  the  memory  of  some  of  my  happiest  day s^  also  assured  me 
that  I was  not  friendless. 

His  visit  was  a brief  one;  for  he  was  in  attendance  on  Marshal 
Lobau’s  staff.  In  the  few  minutes,  however,  of  his  stay,  he  said: 

“I  have  a debt  to  pay,  Charles,  and  have  come  to  discharge  it. 
In  an  hour  hence  I shall  leave  this  with  dispatches  for  the  left  of 
our  line;  before  I go,  I’ll  come  here  with  two  or  three  others,  as 
it  were  to  wish  you  good-night;  I’ll  take  care  to  carry  a second 
cloak  and  a foraging  cap;  I’ll  provide  a fast  horse;  you  shall 
accompany  us  for  some  distance.  I’ll  see  you  safe  across  our 
pickets.  For  the  rest  you  must  trust  to  yourself.  Cest  arrange; 
vUest  cepasV'* 

One  firm  grasp  of  his  hand,  to  which  I responded  by  another, 
followed,  and  he  was  gone. 

Everything  concurred  to  show  me  that  a tremendous  battle 
must  ensue  on  the  morrow,  if  the  British  forces  but  held  their 
position.  It  was  then  with  a feeling  of  excitement  approaching 
to  madness  that  I saw  my  libSrty  before  me ; that  once  more  I 
should  join  in  the  bold  charge  and  the  rude  shock  of  arms,  hear 
the  wild  cry  of  my  gallant  countrymen,  and  either  live  to 
triumph  with  them  in  victory,  or  wait  not  to  witness  our  defeat. 
Thus  flew  my  hopes  as  with  increasing  impatience  I waited  St. 
Croix’s  coming,  and  with  anxious  heart  listened  to  every  sound 
upon  the  stairs  which  might  indicate  his  approach.  At  length 
he  came:  I heard  the  gay  and  laughing  voices  of  his  compan- 
ions as  they  came  along;  the  door  opened,  and  affecting  the 
familiarity  of  old  acquaintance^  to  deceive  the  sentry,  they  all 
shook  me  by  the  hand,  and  spoke  in  terms  of  intimacy. 

“ Labedoyere  is  below,”  said  St.  Croix,  in  a whisper;  “ you 
must  wait  here  a few  moments  longer,  and  I’ll  return  for  you; 
put  on  the  cloak  and  cap,  and  speak  not  a word  as  you  pass  out. 
The  sentry  will  suppose  that  one  of  our  party  has  remained 
behind ; for  I shall  call  out  as  if  speaking  to  him  as  I leave  the 
room.” 

The  voice  of  an  officer  calling  in  tones  of  impatience  for  the 
party  to  come  down,  cut  short  the  interview,  and  again  assuring 
me  of  their  determination  to  stand  by  me,  they  left  the  chamber, 
and  descended  into  the  court.  Scarcely  had  the  door  closed  be- 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


281 


hind  them,  when  my  fellow  prisoner,  whom  I had  totally  for- 
gotten, sprang  on  his  legs,  and  came  toward  me.  His  figure 
screening  the  lamp-light  as  he  stood,  prevented  my  recognizing 
his  features;  but  the  first  tones  of  his  voice  told  me  who  he  was. 

“ Stay,  sir,”  cried  he,  as  he  placed  his  hand  upon  my  arm;  “ 1 
have  overheard  your  project.  In  an  hour  hence  you  will  be  free. 
Can  you— will  you  perform  a service  for  one  who  will  esteem  it 
not  the  less,  that  it  will  be  the  last  that  man  can  render  me? 
The  few  lines  that  I have  written  here  with  my  pencil  axe  for 
my  daughter.” 

I could  bear  no  more,  and  called  out  in  a voice  broken  as 
his  own; 

Oh,  be  not  deceived,  sir,  Willj^ou,  even  in  an  hour  like  this, 
accept  a service  from  one  whom  you  have  banished  from  your 
house  ?” 

The  old  man  started  as  I spoke;  his  hand  trembled  till  it  shook 
my  very  arm,  and,  after  a pause  and  with  an  effort  to  seem 
calm  and  collected,  he  added:  . 

“ My  hours  are  few.  Some  dispatches  of  General  Bourmont 
with  which  the  Duke  intrusted  me,  were  found  in  my  possession. 
My  sentence  is  a hurried  one — and  it  is  death!  By  to-morrow’s 
sunrise- ” 

“Stay,  stay,”  said  I;  “you  shall  escape;  my  life  is  in  no 
danger.  I have,  as  you  see,  even  friends  among  the  staff; 
besides,  I have  done  nothing  to  compromise  or  endanger  my 
position.” 

“No,  sir,”  said  he  sternly,  “I  will  notact  such  a part  as 
this.  The  tears  you  have  seen  in  these  old  eyes  are  not  for 
myself.  I fear  not  death.  Better  it  were  it  should  have  come 
upon  the  field  of  glorious  battle,  but  as  it  is,  my  soldier’s  honor 
is  intact,  untainted,” 

“You  refuse  the  service  on  account  of  him  who  proffers  it,” 
said  I,  as  I fell  heavily  upon  a seat,  my  head  bowed  upon  my 
bosom = 

“Not  so,  not  so,  ray  boy,”  replied  he  kindly;  “the  near  ap- 
proach of  death,  like  the  fading  light  of  day,  gives  us  a 
longer  and  a clearer  view  before  us.  I feel  that  I have  wronged 
you;  that  1 have  imputed  to  you  the  errors  of  others;  but, 
believe  me,  if  I have  wronged  you,  I have  punished  my  own 
heart;  for,  Charles,  I have  loved  you  like  a son.” 

“ Then  prove  it,”  said  I,  “ and  let  me  act  toward  you  as 
toward  a father;^  you  will  not?  you  refuse  me  still?  Then,  by 
Heaven,  I remain  to  share  your  fate,  well  know  the  temper  of 
him  who  sentenced  you,  and  that,  by  one  word  of  mine,  my 
destiny  is  sealed  forever.” 

“ No,  no,  boy;  this  is  but  rash  and  insane  folly.  Another  year 
or  two,  nay,  perhaps  a few  months  more,  and  in  the  common 
course  of  nature  I liad  ceased  to  be;  but  you,  with  youth,  with 
fortune,  and  with  hope ” 

“ Oh,  not  with  hope,”  said  I,  in  a voice  of  agony. 

“Nay,  say  not  so,”  replied  he  calmly,  while  a sickly  smile 
played  sadly  over  his  face:  “you  will  give  this  letter  to  my 
daughter,  you  will  tell  her  that  we  parted  as  friends  should  part; 


282 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


and  if,  after  that,  when  time  shall  have  smoothed  down  her 
grief,  and  her  sorrow  be  rather  a dark  dream  of  the  past  than 
a present  suffering;  if,  then,  you  love  her,  and  if ” 

“Oh,  tempt  me  not  thus,”  said  I,  as  the  warm  tears  gushed 
from  my  eyes,  ‘ lead  me  not  thus  astray  from  what  my  honor 
tells  me  I should  do.  Hark!  they  are  coming  already.  I hear 
the  clank  of  their  sabers;  they  are  mounting  the  steps;  not  a 
moment  is  to  be  lost.  Do  you  refuse  me  still  ?” 

“ I do,”  replied  he,  firmly;  “ I am  resolved  to  bide  my  fate.” 

“ Then  so  do  I,”  cried  I,  as,  folding  my  arms,  I sat  down  be- 
side the  window,  determined  on  my  course. 

“Charley,  Charley,”  said  he,  stooping  over  me,  “my  friend, 
the  last  hope,  the  protector  of  my  child ” 

“I  will  not  go,”  said  I,  in  a hollow  whisper. 

Already  they  were  at  the  door,  I heard  their  voices  as  they 
challenged  the  sentry;  I heard  his  musket  as  he  raised  it 
to  his  shoulder.  The  thought  flashed  across  me;  I jumped  up, 
and  throwing  the  loose  mantle  of  the  French  dragoon  around 
him,  and  replacing  his  own  with  the  foraging  cap  of  St.  Croix, 
I sprang  into  a corner  of  the  room,  and,  seating  myself  so  as  to 
conceal  my  face,  waited  the  result.  The  door  opened,  the  party 
entered,  laughing  and  talking  together. 

“Come,  Eugene,”  said  one,  taking  Sir  George  by  the  arm, 
“you  have  spent  long  enough  time  here  to  learn  the  English 
language.  We  shall  be  late  at  the  outpost.  Messieurs  les  Ang- 
lais^ good-night,  good-night.” 

This  was  repeated  by  the  others  as  they  passed  out  with  Sir 
George  Dashwood  among  them,  who,  seeing  that  my  determina- 
tion was  not  to  be  shaken,  and  that  any  demur  on  his  part 
must  necessarily  compromise  both,  yielded  them  to  a coup  de 
main,  what  he  never  would  have  consented  to,  from  an  appeal 
to  his  reason.  The  door  closed;  their  steps  died  away  in  the  dis- 
tance. Again  a faint  sound  stmck  my  ear;  it  was  the  challenge 
of  the  sentry  beneath,  and  I heard  the  tramp  of  horses’  feet. 
All  was  still,  and  in  a burst  of  heartfelt  gratitude  I sunk  upon 
my  knees,  and  thanked  God  that  he  was  safe. 

So  soundly  did  I sleep  that  not  before  I was  shaken  several 
times  by  the  shoulder  could  I awake  on  the  following  morning. 

“ i thought  there  were  two  prisoners  here,”  said  a gruff  voice, 
as  an  old  mustached  looking  veteran  cast  a searching  look  about 
the  room.  “However,  w^e  shall  have  enough  of  them  before 
sunset.  Get — get  up.  Monsieur  le  Due  de  DcUmatie  desires  some 
information  you  can  give  him.” 

As  he  said  this,  he  led  me  from  the  room,  and,  descending 
the  flight  of  stone  steps,  w^e  entered  the  court-yard.  It  was 
but  four  o’clock,  the  rain  still  falling  in  torrents;  yet  every  one 
was  up  and  stirring. 

“ Mount  this  horse,”  said  my  gruff  friend,  “and  come  with 
me  to  the  left;  the  Marshal  has  already  gone  forward.” 

The  heavy  mist  of  the  morning,  darkened  by  the  lowering 
clouds  which  almost  rested  on  ihe  earth,  prevented  our  seeing 
above  a hundred  yards  before  us;  but  the  hazy  light  of  the 
watch-fires  showed  me  the  extent  of  the  French  position,  as  it 


CHARLES  a MALLET. 


m • 

stretched  away  along  the  ridge  toward  the  Halle  road;  we  rode 
forward  at  a trot,  hut  in  the  deep  clayey  soil  we  sunk  at  each 
moment  to  our  horses’  fetlocks;  I turned  my  head  as  I heard 
the  tramp  and  splash  of  the  horsemen  behind,  and  perceived 
that  I was  followed  by  two  dragoons,  who,  with  their  carbines 
on  the  rest,  kept  their  eyes  steadily  upon  me  to  prevent  any 
chance  of  escape.  In  a slight  hollow  of  the  ground  before  us, 
stood  a number  of  horsemen  who  conversed  together  in  a low 
tone  as  we  came  up. 

“ There,  that  is  the  Marshal,”  said  my  companion,  in  a whisper, 
as  we  joined  the  party. 

“ Yes,  Monsieur  le  Due,”  said  an  engineer-colonel,  who  stood 
beside  Soult’s  horse,  with  a colored  plan  in  his  hand — “ Yes, 
that  is  the  chateau  du  Goumont,  yonder.  It  is,  as  you  perceive, 
completly  covered  by  the  rising  ground  marked  here;  they  will, 
doubtless,  place  a strong  artillery  force  in  this  quarter.” 

“ Ahl  who  is  this?”  said  the  Marshal,  turning  his  eyes  sudden- 
ly upon  me,  and  then  casting  a look  of  displeasure  around  him,, 
lest  I should  have  overheard  any  portion  of  their  conversation. 

“ Y‘ju  are  deficient  in  cavalry,  it  would  appear,  sir!”  said  he  to 
me. 

“ You  must  feel.  Monsieur  de  Due,”  said  I calmly,  “ how  im- 
possible it  is  for  me,  as  a man  of  honor  and  a soldier,  to  afford 
you  any  information  as  to  the  army  I belong  to.” 

“ I do  not  see  that,  sir;  you  are  a prisoner  in  our  hands;  your 
treatment — your  fortune — your  very  life  depends  on  us.  Be- 
sides, sir,  when  French  officers  fall  into  the  power  of  your  people, 

I have  heard  they  meet  not  very  ceremonious  treatment.” 

“ Those  who  say  so,  say  falsely,”  said  I,  “ and  wrong  both  your 
countrymen  and  mine.  In  any  case 

“ The  Guards  are  an  untried  force  in  your  service,”  said  he, 
with  a mixture  of  inquiry  and  assertion. 

I replied  not  a word. 

“ You  must  see,  sir,”  continued  he,  “ that  all  the  chances  are 
against  you.  The  Prussians  beaten,  the  Dutch  discouraged,  the 
Belgians  only  waiting  for  victory  to  incline  to  our  standard, 
to  desert  your  ranks  and  pass  over  to  ours;  while  your  troops, 
scarcely  forty  thousand,  nay,  I might  say,  not  more  than  thirty- 
five  thousand.  Is  it  not  so  ?” 

Here  was  another  question  so  insidiously  conveyed  that  even 
a change  of  feature  on  my  part  might  have  given  the  answer. 
A half  smile,  however,  and  a slight  bow,  was  all  my  reply,  while 
Soult  muttered  something  between  his  teeth,  which  called  forth 
a laugh  from  those  around  him. 

“ You  may  retire,  sir,  a little,”  said  he  dryly  to  me. 

Not  sorry  to  be  freed  from  the  awkwardness  of  my  position,  I 
fell  back  to  the  little  rising  ground  behind.  Although  the  rain 
poured  down  without  ceasing,  the  rising  sun  dispelled,  in  part, 
the  heavy  vapor,  and  by  degrees  different  portions  of  the  wide 
plain  presented  themselves  to  view;  and,  as  the  dense  masses  of 
fog  moved  slowly  along,  I could  detect,  but  still  faintly,  the  out- 
line of  the  large,  irregular  building,  which  I had  heard  them  call 
the  Chateau  de  Gouniont,  and  from  which  I could  hear  the  clank 


^84 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


of  masonry,  as,  at  intervals,  the  wind  bore  the  sounds  to* 
ward  me.  These  were  the  sappers  crenelling  the  walls  for  mus* 
ketry;  and  this  I could  now  perceive  was  looked  upon  as  a posi* 
tion  of  no  small  importance.  Surrounded  by  a straggling  orchard 
of  aged  fruit  trees,  the  chateau  lay  some  hundred  yards  in 
advance  of  the  British  line,  commanded  by  two  eminences;  one 
of  which,  in  the  possession  of  the  French,  was  already  occupied 
by  a park  of  eleven  guns;  of  the  other  I knew  nothing,  except 
the  passing  glance  I had  obtained  of  its  position  on  the  map. 

The  second  corps,  under  Jerome  Bonaparte,  with  Foy  and 
Kellernian’s  brigade  of  light  artillery,  stretched  behind  us.  On 
the  right  of  these  came  D’Erlon’s  corps,  extending  to  a small 
wood,  which  my  companion  told  me  was  Frischermont;  while 
Lobau’s  division  was  stationed  to  the  extreme  right,  toward  St. 
Lambert,  to  maintain  the  communication  with  Grouchy  at 
Wavre,  or,  if  need  be,  to  repel  the  advance  of  the  Prussians, 
and  prevent  their  junction  with  the  Anglo-Dutch  army.  The 
Imperial  Guard  with  the  cavalry  formed  the  reserve.  Such  was 
in  substance  the  information  given  me  by  my  guide,  who 
seemed  to  expatiate  with  pleasure  over  the  magnificent  array 
of  battle,  while  he  felt  a pride  in  displaying  his  knowledge  of 
the  various  divisions  and  their  leaders. 

“ I see  the  Marshal  moving  toward  the  right,”  said  he;  ‘‘we 
had  better  follow  him.” 

It  was  now  about  eight  o’clock,  ns  from  the  extremity  of  the 
line  I could  see  a party  of  horsemen  advancing  at  a sharp 
canter. 

“ That  must  be  Ney,”  said  my  companion.  “See  how  rashly 
he  approaches  the  English  lines  1” 

And  so  it  was.  Tiie  party  in  question  rode  fearlessly  down 
the  slope,  and  did  not  halt  until  they  reached  within  about  three 
hundred  yards  of  what  appeared  a ruined  church. 

“What  is  that  building  j^onder?” 

“That — that,”  replied  he,  after  a moment’s  thought,  that 
must  be  La  Haye  Sainte;  and  yonder,  to  the  right  of  it,  ie  the 
road  to  Brussels.  There,  look  now!  your  people  are  in  motion. 
See!  a column  is  moving  toward  the  right,  and  the  cavalry  are 
defiling  on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  I was  mistaken;  that 
cannot  be  Ney.  : Sacre  Dieu!  it  was  the  Emperor  himself,  and 
here  he  comes.” 

As  he  spoke  a party  galloped  forward,  and  pulled  up  short 
within  a few  yards  of  where  we  stood. 

“ Ha!”  cried  he  as  his  sharp  glance  fell  upon  me,  “ there  is  my 
taciturn  friend  of  Quatre  Bras  . You  see.  sir,  I can  dispense 
with  your  assistance  now;  the  chess-board  is  before  me;”  and  then 
added,  in  a tone  he  intended  not  to  be  overheard,  “Everything 
depends  on  Grouchy.” 

“Well,  Haxo,”  he  called  out  to  an  officer  who  galloped  up, 
ehapeau  in  hand,  “ what  say  you?  are  they  intrenched  in  that 
position  ?” 

“ No,  sire,  the  ground  is  open,  and  in  two  hours  more  will  be 
firm  enough  for  the  guns  to  maneuver.” 

“ Now,  then,  for  breakfast,”  said  Napoleon,  as  with  an  easy 


CHARLES  aMALLEY, 


285 


and  tranquil  smile  he  turned  his  horse’s  head,  and  cantered  gently 
up  the  heights  toward  La  Belle  Alliance.  As  he  approached  the 
lines  the  cry  of  “ Vive  VEmpereurP'  burst  forth.  Regiment 
after  regiment  took  it  up;  and  from  the  distant  wood  of  Frischer- 
mont  to  the  far  left  beside  Merke-braine,  the  shout  resounded. 
So  sudden,  so  simultaneous  was  the  outbreak,  that  he  himself,  ac- 
customed as  he  was  to  the  enthusiasrh  of  his  army,  seemed,  as  he 
regned  in  his  horse  and  looked  with  a proud  and  elated  eye  upon 
the  counijless  thousands,  astounded  and  amazed.  He  lifted  with 
slow  and  graceful  action  his  unplumed  hat  above  his  head,  and, 
while  he  bowed  that  proud  front  before  which  kings  had  trem- 
bled. the  acclamation  burst  forth  anew,  and  rent  the  very  air. 

At  this  moment  the  sun  shone  brilliantly  out  from  the  dark 
clouds,  and  flashed  upon  the  shining  blades  and  glistening  bay- 
onets along  the  line.  A dark  and  lowering  shadow  hung  gloom- 
ily over  the  British  position,  while  the  French  sparkled  and 
glittered  in  the  sunbeams.  His  quick  glance  passed  with  light- 
ning speed  from  one  to  the  other;  and  I thought  that,  in  his  look 
upturned  to  heaven,  I could  detect  the  flitting  thought  which 
bade  him  hope  it  was  an  augury.  The  bands  of  the  Imperial 
Guard  burst  forth  in  joyous  and  triumphant  strains;  and  amid 
the  repeated  cries  of  “ rKmpereiir!  V Empereiirr  he  rode  slowly 
along  toward  La  Belle  Alliance. 


CHAPTER  CXIX. 

WATERLOO. 

Napoleon’s  first  intention  was  to  open  the  battle  by  an  attack 
upon  the  extreme  right ;j3ut  Ney,  who  returned  from  an  obser- 
vation of  the  ground,  informed  him  that  a rivulet,  swollen  by 
the  late  rains,  had  now  become  a foaming  torrent,  perfectly  im- 
passable to  infantry.  To  avoid  this  difficulty  he  abandoned  his 
favorite  maneuver  of  a flank  movement,  and  resolvhd  to  attack 
the  enemy  by  the  center.  Launching  his  cavalry  and  artillery 
by  the  road  to  Brussels,  he  hoped  chus  to  cut  the  communication 
of  the  British  with  their  own  left,  as  well  as  with  the  Prussians, 
for  whom  he  trusted  that  Grouchy  would  be  more  than  a match. 

The  reserves  were  in  consequence  all  brought  up  to  the  center. 
Seven  thousand  cavalry  and  a massive  artillery  assembled  upon 
the  heights  of  La  Belle  Alliance,  and  waited  but  the  order 
to  march.  It  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  Napoleon  mounted  his 
horse  and  rode  slowly  along  the  line;  again  theory  of  “Fife 
V EmpereurP^  resounded,  and  the  bands  of  the  various  rt'giments 
struck  up  their  spirit-stirring  strains  as  the  gorgeous  staff 
moved  along.  On  the  British  side  all  was  tranquil;  and  still 
the  different  divisions  appeared  to  have  taken  up  their  ground, 
and  the  long  ridge  from  Ter-la-Haye  to  Merke-braine  bristled 
with  bayonets.  Nothing  could  possibly  be  more  equal  than  the 
circumstances  of  the  field.  Each  army  possessed  an  eminence 
whence  their  artillery  might  play.  A broad  and  slightly  un- 
dulating valley  lay  between  both.  The  ground  permitted  in 
all  places  both  cavalry  and  infantry  movements,  and  except 
the  crumbling  walls  of  the  Chateau  of  Hougoumont,  or  the 


286 


CHARLES  CMALLEY, 


farm-house  of  La  Haye  Sainte,  both  of  which  were  oc- 
cupied by  the  British,  no  advantage  either  by  nature  or  art 
inclined  to  either  side.  It  was  a fair  stand-up  fight.  It  was 
the  mighty  tournament,  not  only  of  the  two  greatest  nations, 
but  the  "two  deadliest  rivals  and  bitterest  enemies,  led 
T)n  by  the  two  greatest  military  geniuses  that  the  world  has 
ever  seen;  it  might  not  be  too  much  to  say,  or  ever  will  see. 
.4.S  for  me,  condemned  to  be  an  inactive  spectator  of  the  mighty 
struggle,  doomed  to  witness  all  the  deep-laid  schemes  and  well- 
ievised  plans  of  attack  which  were  destined  for  the  overthrow 
Di  my  country's  arms,  my  state  was  one  of  torture  and  suspense. 
[ sat  upon  the  little  rising  ground  of  Kosspmme;  before  me,  in 
the  valley,  where  yet  the  tall  corn  waved  in  ripe  luxuriance, 
stood  the  quiet  and  peaceful  looking  old  Chateau  of  Hougou- 
mont,  and  the  blossoming  branches  of  the  orchard;  the  birds 
were  gayly  singing  their  songs,  the  shrill  whistle  of  the  fatal 
musketry  was  to  be  heard,  ahd  through  my  glass  I could  detect 
the  uniform  of  the  soldiers  who  held  the  position,  and  my  heart 
beat  anxiously  and  proudly  as  I recognized  the  Guards.  In  the 
orchard  and  garden  were  stationed  some  riflemen,  at  least  their 
dress  and  the  scattered  order  they  assumed  bespoke  them  such. 

While  I looked  the  tirailleurs  of  Jerome’s  division  advanced 
from  the  front  of  the  line,  and,  descending  the  hill  in  a sling 
trot,  broke  into  scattered  parties,  keeping  up  as  they  went  a 
desultory  and  irregular  fire.  The  English  skirmishers,  less 
expert  in  this  peculiar  service,  soon  fell  back,  and  the  head  of 
Reil’s  brigade  began  their  march  toward  the  chateau.  The 
English  artillery  is  unmasked  and  opens  its  fire,  Kellerman 
advances  at  a gallop  his  twelve  pieces  of  artillery;  the  chateau 
is  concealed  from  view  by  the  dense  ^oke,  and,  as  the  attack 
thickens,  fresh  troops  pour  forward,  the  artillery  thundering 
on  either  side;  the  entire  line  of  both  armies  stand  motionless 
spectators  of  the  terrific  combat,  while  every  eye  is  turned 
toward  that  devoted  spot  from  whose  dense  mass  of  cloud  and 
smoke  the  bright  glare  of  artillery  is  flashing,  as  the  crashing 
masonry,  the  taming  rafters,  and  the  loud  yell  of  battle  add  to 
the  frightful  interest  of  the  scene.  For  "above  an  hour  the 
tremendous  attack  continues  without  cessation;  the  artillery 
stationed  upon  the  height  had  now  found  its  range,  and  every 
ringing  shot  tells  upon  the  tottering  walls:  some  wounded 
soldiers  return  faint  and  bleeding  from  the  conflict,  but  there  are 
few  who  escape.  A crashing  volley  of  firearms  is  now  heard 
from  the  side  where  the  orchard  stands;  a second,  and  a third  suc- 
ceed, one  after  the  other,  as  rapid  as  lightning  itself.  A silence  fol- 
lows, when  after  a few  momenta  a deafening  cheer  bursts  forth, 
and  an  aid-de-camp  gallops  up  to  say  that  the  orchard  has  been 
carried  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet,  the  Nassau  sharp-shooters, 
who  held  it,  liaving  after  a desperate  resistance  retired  before 
the  irresistible  onset  of  the  French  inf  an  try.  AvouSy  main- 
tenant  said  General  Foy,  as  he  drew  his  saber,  and  rode  to 
the  head  of  his  splendid  division,  which,  anxious  for  the’word 
to  advance,  were  standing  in  the  valley.  **  En  avant ! mes 
hraveSy^  cried  he,  while  pointing  to  the  chateau  with  his  sword. 


CHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


28*7 


lie  dashed  boldly  forward.  Scarcely  had  he  advanced  a hundred 
yards  when  a cannon-shot  recocheting  as  it  went,  struck  his  horse 
in  the  counter  and  rolled  him  dead  on  the  plain;  disengaging 
himself  from  the  lifeless  animal,  he  at  once  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  burned  forward.  The  column  was  soon  hid  from  my  view, 
and  I was  left  to  mourn  over  the  seemingly  inevitable  fate  that 
impended  over  my  gallant  countrymen. 

In  the  intense  interest  which  chained  me  to  this  pai*t  of  the 
field,  I had  not  noticed  till  this  moment  that  the  Emperor  and 
his  staff  were  standing  scarcely  thirty  yards  from  where  I was. 
Napoleon,  seated  upon  a gray,  almost  white,  Arabian,  had  suf- 
fered the  reins  to  fall  loosely  on  the  neck,  as  he  held  with  both 
hands  his  telescope  to  his  eye;  his  dress,  the  usual  green  coat, 
with  white  facings,  the  uniform  of  the  chasseurs  a cheval,  was 
distinguished  merely  by  the  cross  of  the  legion;  his  high  boots 
were  splashed  and  mud-stained,  from  riding  through  the  deep 
and  clayey  soil;  his  compact  and  clean-bred  charger  looked  also 
slightly  biown  and  heated,  but  he  himself — and  I watched  hia 
features  well— looked  calm,  composed  and  tranquil.  How  anx- 
iously did  I scrutinize  that  face;  with  what  a throbbing  heart 
did  I canvass  every  gesture,  hoping  to  find  some  passing  trait  of 
doubt,  of  difficulty,  or  of  hesitation;  but  none  was  there;  unlike 
one  who  looked  upon  the  harrowing  spectacle  of  a battle-field, 
whose  all  was  depending  on  the  game  before  him;  gambling 
with  one  throw  his  last,  his  only  stake,  and  that  the  empire  of 
the  world.  Yet  could  I picture  to  myself  one  who  felt  at  peace 
within  himself;  naught  of  reproach,  naught  of  regret  to  move 
or  stir  his  spirit,  whose  tranquil  bark  had  glided  over  the  calm 
sea  of  life,  unruffled  by  the  breath  of  passion;  I should  have 
fancied  such  was  he. 

Beside  him  sat  one  whose  flashing  eye  and  changing  features 
looked  in  every  way  his  opposite;  watching  with  intense  anxiety 
the  scene  of  the  deadly  struggle  round  the  chateau,  every  look, 
every  gesture  told  the  changing  fortune  of  the  moment;  his 
broad  and  brawny  chest  glittered  with  orders  and  decorations, 
but  his  heavy  brow  and  lowering  look,  flashed  almost  black 
with  excitement,  could  not  easily  be  forgotten.  It  was  Soult, 
who  in  his  quality  of  Major-General  accompanied  the  Emperor 
throughout  the  day. 

“ They  have  lost  it  again,  sir,”  said  the  Marshal,  passionately? 
“ and  see,  they  are  forming  beneath  the  cross-fire  of  the  artillery; 
the  head  of  the  column  keeps  not  its  formation  two  minutes  to- 
gether; why  does  he  not  move  up?” 

“Domont,  you  know  the  British;  what  troops  are  those  in 
the  orchard  ? They  use  the  bayonet  well.” 

The  officer  addressed  pointed  his  glass  for  a moment  to  the 
spot,  then  turning  to  the  Emperor,  replied,  as  he  touched  his 
hat:  “ They  are  the  Guards,  sire.” 

During  this  time  Napoleon  spoke  not  a word;  his  eye  ever  bent 
upon  the  battle,  he  seemed  to  pay  little  if  any  attention  to  the 
conversation  about  him.  As  he  looked,  an  aid-de-camp,  breath- 
less and  heated,  galloped  up. 


288 


CHARLES  SMALLEY 


The  columns  of  attack  are  formed,  sire;  everything  is  ready, 
and  the  Marshal  only  waits  the  order.” 

Napoleon  turned  upon  his  saddle,  and,  directing  his  glass  to- 
ward Ney’s  division,  looked  fixedly  for  some  moments  at  them. 
His  eye  moved  from  front  to  rear  slowly,  and  at  last,  carry- 
ing his  telescope  along  the  line,  he  fixed  it  steadily  upon  the  far 
left.  Here,  toward  St.  Lambert,  a slight  cloud  seemed  to  rest  on 
the  horizon,  as  the  Emperor  continued  to  gaze  steadfastly  at  it; 
every  glass  of  the  staff  was  speedily  turned  in  that  direction. 

“ It  is  nothing  but  a cloud;  some  exhalation  from  that  quar- 
ter,” whispered  one. 

“ To  me,”  said  another,  they  look  like  trees,  part  of  theBois 
de  Wavre.” 

“ They  are  men,”  said  the  Emperor,  speaking  for  the  first 
time.  Est-ce  Grouchy  9 Est-ce  Blucher 

Soult  inclines  to  believe  it  to  be  the  former,  and  proceeds  to 
give  his  reasons;  but  the  Emperor,  without  listening,  turns 
toward  Domont  and  orders  him,  with  his  division  of  light  cav- 
alry and  Subervic’s  brigade,  to  proceed  thither  at  once.  If  it  be 
Grouchy,  to  establish  a junction  with  him;  to  resist,  should  it 
prove  to  be  the  advanced  guard  of  Marshal  Blucher.  Scarcely  is 
the  order  given  when  a column  of  cavalry  wheeling  fours  about 
unravels  itself  from  the  immense  mass,  and  seems  to  serpentine 
like  an  enormous  snake  between  the  squares  of  the  mighty 
army!  The  pace  increases  at  every  moment,  and  at  length  we 
see  them  merge  from  the  extreme  right  and  draw  up,  as  if  on 
parade,  about  half  a mile  from  the  wood.  This  movement, 
which,  by  its  precision  and  beauty,  had  attracted  our  entire  at- 
tention, not  only  from  the  attack  upon  Hougoumont,  but  also  an 
incident  which  had  taken  place  close  beside  us.  This  was  the 
appearance  of  a Prussian  hussar,  who  had  been  taken  prisoner 
between  Wavre  and  Planchenoit;  he  was  the  bearer  of  a letter 
from  Bulow  to  Wellington,  announcing  his  arrival  at  St.  Lam 
bert,  and  asking  for  orders. 

This  at  once  explains  the  appearance  on  the  right,  but  the 
prisoner  also  adds  that  the  three  Prussian  corps  were  also  at 
Wavre,  having  pushed  their  patrols  two  leagues  from  that  town, 
without  even  encountering  any  portion  of  the  force  under  the 
command  of  Grouchy.  For  a moment  not  a word  is  spoken,  A 
silence  like  a panic  pervades  the  staff;  the  Emperor  himself  is  the 
first  to  break  it. 

‘‘This  morning,”  said  he,  turning  toward  Soult,  “ the  chances 
were  ninety  to  one  in  our  favor.  Bulow’s  arrival  has  already 
lost  us  thirty  of  the  number;  but  the  odds  are  still  sufficient,  if 
Grouchy  but  repair  the  horrible  fault  he  has  committed.” 

He  paused  for  a moment,  and,  as  he  lifted  up  his  open  hands, 
and  turned  a look  of  indignant  passion  toward  the  staff,  added 
in  a voice,  the  sarcasm  of  whose  tone  there  is  no  forgetting: 

“ II  s' amuse  a Genihloux!  Still,”  said  he,  speaking  rapidly,  and 
with  more  energy  than  I had  hitherto  noticed,  “Bulow  may 
not  be  entirely  cut  off.  Let  an  officer  approach.  Take  this  let- 
ter, sir,”  giving  as  he  spoke  Bulow’s  letter  to  Lord  Wellington, 
“ give  this  letter  to  Marshal  Gronchy;  tell  him  that  at  this  mo- 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


289 


ment  he  should  be  before  Wavre;  tell  him  that  already,  had  he 

obeyed  his  orders But  no,  tell  him  to  march  at  once,  to 

press  forward  his  cavalry,  to  come  up  in  two  hours— in  three  at 
furthest.  You  have  but  five  leagues  to  ride;  see,  sir,  that  you 
reach  him  within  an  hour.” 

As  the  officer  hurries  away  at  the  top  of  his  speed,  an  aid-de- 
camp  from  General  Dumont  confirms  the  news;  they  are  the 
Prussians  wliom  he  has  before  him.  As  yet,  however,  they  are 
debouching  from  the  wood,  and  have  attempted  no  forward 
movement. 

“ What’s  Bulow’s  force.  Marshal 

‘‘  Thirty  thousand,  sire.” 

“Let  Lobau  take  ten  thousand,  with  the  cuirassiers  of  the 
Young  Guard,  and  hold  the  Prussians  in  check.” 

''  Maintenant  pour  les  aiitres,^'  This  he  said  with  a smile,  as 
he  turned  his  eyes  once  more  toward  the  field  of  battle.  The 
aid- de  camp  of  Marshal  Ney,  who,  bareheaded  and  expectant, 
sat  waiting  for  orders,  presented  himself  to  view.  The  Em- 
peror turned  toward  him,  as  he  said,  with  a clear,  firm  voice: 

“ Tell  the  Marshal  to  open  the  fire  of  his  batteries;  to  carry  La 
Have  Sainte  with  the  bayonet,  and  leaving  an  infantry  division 
for  its  protection,  to  march  against  La  Papelotte  and  La  Haye. 
They  must  be  carried  by  the  bayonet.” 

The  aid-de-camp  was  gone;  Napoleon’s  eye  followed  him  as  he 
crossed  the  open  plain,  and  was  lost  in  the  dense  ranks  of  the 
dark  columns.  Scarcely  five  minutes  elapsed  when  eighty  guns 
thundered  ouf  together,  and  as  the  earth  shook  and  trembled 
beneath,  the  mighty  movement  of  the  day  began  its  execution. 
From  Hougoumont,  where  the  slaughter  and  the  carnage  con- 
tinued unslackened  and  un stayed,  every  eye  was  now  turned 
toward  theright=  I knew  not  what  troops  occupied  La  Haye 
Sainte,  or  whether  they  were  British  who  crowned  the  heights 
above  it;  but  in  my  heart,  how  fervently  did  I pray  that  it  might 
be  so.  Oh!  in  that  moment  of  suspense  and  agonizing  doubt,  what 
would  I not  have  given  to  know  that  Picton  himself  and  the 
fighting  Fifth  were  there;  that  behind  that  ridge,  the  Grays,  the 
Royals,  and  the  Enniskillens,  sat  motionless,  but  burning  to  ad- 
vance; that  the  breath  of  the  battle  waved  among  the  tartans  of 
the  Highlanders,  and  blew  upon  the  flashing  features  of  my  own 
island  countrymen.  Had  I known  this,  I could  have  marked  the 
onset  with  a less  failing  spirit. 

“ There  goes  Marcognet’s  division,”  said  my  companion,  spring- 
ing to  his  legs;  “ they’re  moving  to  the  right  of  the  road.  I 
should  like  to  see  the  troops  that  will  stand  before  them.” 

So  saying,  he  mounted  his  horse,  and,  desiring  me  to  accom- 
pany him,  rode  to  the  height  beside  La  Belle  Alliance.  The 
battle  was  now  raging  from  the  chateau  de  Hougoumont  to  St. 
Lambert,  where  the  Prussian  tirailleurs,  as  they  issued  from  the 
wood,  were  skirmishing  with  the  advanced  posts  of  Lol)au’s 
brigade.  The  attack  upon  the  center,  however,  engrossed  all 
my  attention,  and  I watched  the  dark  columns  as  they  descended 
into  the  plain,  while  the  incessant  roll  of  the  artillery  played 
about  them.  To  the  right  of  Ney’s  attack,  D’Erlon  advanced 


CHARLES  am  ALLEY. 


‘<>90 

with  three  divisions,  and  the  artillery  of  the  Guard.  Toward 
this  part  of  the  field  my  companion  moved.  General  Le  Vasseur 
desired  to  know  if  the  divisions  on  the  Brussels  road  were  Eng^ 
lish  or  Hanoverian  troops,  and  I was  sent  for  to  answer  the 
question.  We  passed  from  square  to  square  until  at  length  we 
found  ourselves  upon  the  fiank  of  D’Erlon’s  division.  Le  Vas- 
seur, who  at  the  head  of  his  cuirassiers,  waited  but  the  order  to 
charge,  waved  impatiently  with  his  sword  for  us  to  approach. 
We  were  now  to  the  right  of  the  high  road,  and  about  four 
hundred  yards  from  the  crest  of  the  hill,  where,  protected  by  a 
slight  hedge,  Picton,  with  Kempt’s  brigade,  waited  the  attack 
of  the  enemy. 

Just  at  this  moment  an  incident  took  place  which,  while  in 
itself  one  of  the  most  brilliant  achievements  of  the  day,  changed 
in  a signal  manner  my  own  fortunes.  The  head  of  D’Erlon’s 
column  pressed  with  fixed  bayonets  up  the  gentle  slope.  Already 
the  Belgian  infantry  gave  way  before  them.  The  brave  Bruns- 
wickers,  overwhelmed  by  the  heavy  cavalry  of  France,  began  to 
waver;  then  are  broken;  and  at  last  retreat  in  disorder  up  the 
road,  a whirlwdnd  of  pursuing  squadrons  thundering  behind 
them.  ^'Enavant!  en  amnt ! toujours  la  victoire  est  a nous, 
is  shouted  madly  through  the  impatient  ranks;  and  the  artillery 
is  called  up  to  play  upon  the  British  squares;  upon  wiiich,  fixed 
and  immovable,  the  cuirassiers  have  charged  without  success. 
Like  a thunderbolt,  the  flying  artillery  dtishes  to  the  front;  but 
scarcely  has  it  reached  the  bottom  of  the  ascent,  when,  from  the 
deep  ground,  the  guns  become  imbedded  in  the  soil;  the  wheels 
refuse  to  move.  In  vain  the  artillery  drivers  whip  and  spur 
their  laboring  cattle.  Impatiently  the  leading  file  of  the  column 
prick  with  their  bayonets  the  struggling  horses.  The  hesitation 
is  fatal;  for  Wellington,  who,  wfith  eagle  glance,  watches  from 
an  eminence  beside  the  high  road  the  advancing  column,  sees 
the  accident.  An  order  is  given;  and,  with  one  fell  sw  oop,  the 
heavy  cavalry  brigade  pour  down.  Picton’s  division  deploys  into 
line;  the  bayonets  glance  about  the  ridge;  and,  with  a shout 
that  tells  above  the  battle,  on  they  come,  the  fighting  Fifth. 
One  volley  is  exchanged;  but  the  bay  onet  is  now  brought  to  the 
charge,  and  the  French  division  retreat  in  close  column,  pursued 
by  their  gallant  enemy. 

Scarcely  had  the  leading  divisions  fallen  back,  and  the  rear 
pressed  down  upon,  or  thrown  into  disorder,  when  the  cavalry 
trumpets  sound  a charge;  the  bright  helmets  of  the  Enniskilleners 
come  flashing  in  the  sunbeams,  and  the  Scotch  Grays,  like  a 
white-crested  wave,  are  rolling  upon  the  foe.  Marcognet’s  divi- 
sion is  surrounded;  the  dragoons  ride  them  down  on  every  side; 
the  guns  are  captured,  the  drivers  cut  down,  and  two  thousand 
prisoners  are  carried  off.  A sudden  panic  seems  to  seize  upon 
the  French,  as  cavalry,  infantry,  and  artillery  are  hurried  back 
on  each  other.  Vaimy  the  French  attempt  to  rally;  the  un- 
tiring enemy  press  madly  on;  the  household  brigade,  led  on 
by  Lord  Uxbridge,  come  thundering  down  the  road,  riding 
down  with  their  gigantic  force  the  mailed  cuirassiers  of 
France.  Borne  along  with  the  retreating  torrents,  I was  car- 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


291 


ried  on  amid  the  densely  commingled  mass.  The  British 
cavalry,  which,  like  the  lightnings  that  sever  the  thunder-cloud, 
pierce  through  in  every  direction,  plunged  madly  upon  us.  The 
roar  of  battle  grew  louder,  as  hand  to  hand  they  fought.  Mil- 
haud’s heavy  dragoons,  with  the  Fourth  Lancers,  came  up  at  a 
gallop.  Pic  ton  pressed  forward,  waving  his  plumed  hat  above 
his  head;  his  proud  eye  flashed  with  the  fire  of  victory.  That 
moment  is  his  last.  Struck  in  the  forehead  by  a musket  ball,  he 
falls  dead  from  the  saddle;  and  the  wild  yell  of  the  Irish  regi- 
ments, as  they  ring  his  death-cry,  are  the  last  sounds  which  he 
hears.  Meanwhile  the  Life  Guards  are  among  us;  prisoners  of 
rank  are  captured  on  every  side;  and  1,  seizing  the  moment, 
throw  myself  among  the  ranks  of  my  countrymen,  and  am 
borne  to  the  rear  with  the  retiring  squadrons. 

As  we  reached  the  crest  of  the  hill  above  the  road,  a loud  cheer 
in  the  valley  beneath  us  burst  forth,  and  from  the  midst  of  the 
dense  smoke  a bright  and  pointed  flame  shot  up  toward  the  sky. 
It  was  the  farm-house  of  La  Haye  Sainte,  which  the  French  had 
succeeded  in  setting  fire  to  with  hot  shot;  for  some  time  past  the 
ammunition  of  the  corps  that  held  it  had  failed,  and  a dropping, 
irregular  musketry  was  the  only  reply  to  the  incessant  rattle  of 
the  enemy.  As  the  smoke  cleared  away  we  discovered  that  the 
French  had  carried  the  position;  and,  as  no  quarter  was  given  in 
that  deadly  hand-to-hand  conflict,  not  one  returned  to  our  ranks 
to  tell  the  tale  of  their  defeat. 

“ Tliis  is  the  oflicer  that  I spoke  of,”  said  the  aid-de-camp,  as 
he  rode  up  to  where  I was  standing,  bareheaded  and  without  a 
sword.  “ He  has  just  made  his  escape  from  the  French  lines^ 
and  will  be  able  to  give  your  lordship  some  information.” 

The  handsome  features  and  gorgeous  costume  of  Lord  Uxbridge 
were  knov/n  to  me;  but  I was  not  aware  till  afterward  that  a 
soldier-like,  resolute-looking  officer  beside  him  was  General 
Graham.  It  was  the  latter  who  first  addressed  me. 

“ Are  you  aware,  sir,”  said  he,  “ if  Grouchy’s  force  is  arrived?” 

‘^They  had  not;  on  the  contrary,  sir,  shortly  before  I escaped, 
an  aid-de-camp  was  dispatched  to  Gembloux  to  hasten  his  coming. 
And  the  troops,  for  they  must  be  troops,  were  debouching  from 
the  wood  yonder;  they  seem  to  form  a junction  with  the  corps 
to  the  right;  they  are  the  Prussians.  They  arrived  there  before 
noon  from  St.  Lambert,  and  are  part  of  Bulow’s  corps.  Count 
Lobau  and  his  division  of  ten  thousand  men  were  dispatched 
about  an  hour  since  to  hold  them  in  check.” 

“This  is  great  news,”  said  Lord  Uxbridge.  “Fitzroy  must 
know  it  at  once.” 

So  saying,  he  dashed  spurs  into  his  horse,  and  soon  disappeared 
amid  the  crowd  on  the  hill-top. 

“ You  had  better  see  the  Duke,  sh,”  said  Graham;  “ your  iufor- 
mation  is  too  important  to  be  delayed.  Captain  Calvert,  let  this 
officer  have  a horse;  his  own  is  too  tired  to  go  much  further.” 

“And  a cap,”  added  I,  in  an  undertone,  “for  I have  already 
found  a sabrr.” 

By  a slight  circuitous  route  we  reached  the  road  upon  which  a 
mass  of  dismounted  artillery -carts,  baggage- wagons  and  turn- 


m 


CHARLES  HMALLEY. 


brils  were  heaped  together  as  a barricade  against  the  attack  of 
the  French  dragoons,  who  more  than  once  had  penetrated  to  the 
very  crest  of  our  position.  Close  to  this,  and  on  a little  rising 
ground,  from  which  a view  of  the  entire  field  extended,  from 
Hougoumont  to  the  far  left,  the  Duke  of  Wellington  stood  sur< 
rounded  by  his  staff.  His  eye  was  bent  upon  the  valley  before 
him,  where  the  advancing  columns  of  Ney’s  attack  still  pressed 
onward;  while  the  fire  of  sixty  great  guns  poured  death  and  car- 
nage into  his  lines.  The  second  Belgian  division,  l outed  and 
broken,  had  fallen  back  upon  the  Twenty-seventh  regiment, 
who  had  merely  time  to  throw  themselves  into  square,  when 
Milhaud’s  cuirassiers,  armed  with  a terrible  long,  straight  sword, 
came  sweeping  down  upon  them.  A line  of  impassable  bayonets, 
a living  cheveaux-de-frise  of  the  best  blood  of  Britain,  stood  firm 
and  motionless  before  the  shock.  The  French  mitraille  played 
mercilessly  on  the  ranks;  but  the  chasms  were  filled  up  like 
magic,  and  in  vain  the  bold  horsemen  of  Gaul  galloped  round 
the  bristling  files.  At  length  the  word  “ firel”  was  heard  within 
the  square,  and,  as  the  bullets  at  pistol  range  rattled  upon  them, 
the  cuirass  afforded  them,  no  defense  against  the  deadly  volley. 
Men  and  horses  rolled  indiscriminately  upon  the  earth;  then 
would  come  a charge  of  our  dashing  squadrons,  who,  riding 
recklessly  upon  the  foe,  were  in  their  turn  to  be  repulsed  by 
numbers  and  fresh  attacks  poured  dowm  upon  our  unshaken  in 
fantry. 

“ That  column  yonder  is  wavering;  why  does  he  not  bring  up 
his  supporting  squadrons?”  inquired  the  Duke,  pointing  to  a 
Belgian  regiment  of  Light  Dragoons,  who  were  formed  in  the 
same  brigade  with  the  Seventh  Hussars. 

“He  refuses  to  oppose  his  light  cavalry  to  cuirassiers,  my  lord,” 
said  an  aid-de-camp,  who  just  returned  from  the  division  in 
question. 

“Tell  him  to  march  his  men  off  the  ground,”  said  the  Duke, 
with  a quiet  and  impassive  tone. 

In  less  than  ten  minutes  the  regiment  was  seen  to  defile  from 
the  mass,  and  take  the  road  to  Brussels,  to  increase  the  panic  of 
that  city,  by  circulating  and  strengthening  the  report  that  the 
English  were  beaten,  and  Napoleon  in  full  march  upon  the 
capital 

“ What’s  Ney’s  force  ? can  you  guess,  sir  ?”  said  Lord  Welling- 
ton, turning  to  me. 

“ About  twelve  thousand  men,  my  lord.” 

“ Are  the  Guard  among  them  ?” 

No,  sir;  the  Guard  are  in  reserve  above  La  Belle  Alliance.” 

“ In  what  part  of  the  field  is  Bonaparte  ?” 

“ Nearly  opposite  to  wdiere  we  stand.” 

“ I told  you,  gentlemen,  Hougoumont  never  was  the  great  at- 
tack. The  battle  must  be  decided  here,”  pointing,  as  he  spoke, 
to  the  plain  beneath  us,  where  still  Ney  poured  in  liis  devoted 
columns,  where  yet  the  French  cavalry  rode  down  upon  oi:> 
firm  square. 

As  he  spoke  an  aid-de-camp  rode  up  from  the  valley. 


CHARLES  CMALLEY. 


293 


‘‘The  Ninety-second  require  support,  my  lord;  they  cannot 
maintain  their  positions  half  an  hour  longer  without  it.” 

“ Have  they  given  way,  sir?” 

No ” 

“ Well,  then,  they  must  stand  where  they  are.  I hear  cannon 
toward  the  left;  yonder,  near  Frischermont.” 

At  this  moment  the  light  cavalry  swept  past  the  base  of  the 
hill  on  which  we  stood,  hotly  followed  by  the  French  Heavy 
Cuirassier  Brigade.  Three  of  our  guns  were  taken,  and  the 
cheering  of  the  French  infantry,  as  they  advanced  to  the  charge, 
presaged  their  hope  of  victory, 

“ Do  it,  then,”  said  the  Duke,  in  reply  to  some  whispered  ques- 
tion of  Lord  Uxbridge;  and  shortly  after  the  heavy  trot  of 
advancing  squadrons  was  heard  behind. 

They  were  the  Life  Guards  and  the  Blues,  who  with  the  First 
Dragoon  Guards  and  the  Enniskillens,  were  formed  in  close 
column. 

“I  know  the  ground,  my  lord,”  said  I to  Lord  Uxbridge. 

“ Come  along,  sir,  come  along,”  said  he,  as  he  threw  his  hussar 
jacket  loosely  behind  him  to  give  freedom  to  his  sword-arm. 
“ Forward,  my  men,  forward,  but  steady;  hold  your  horses  in 
hand;  threes  about,  and  together  charge.” 

“ Charge  I”  he  shouted ; while  as  the  word  flew  from  squadron 
to  squadron,  each  horseman  bent  upon  his  saddle,  and  that 
mighty  mass,  as  though  instinct  with  but  one  spirit,  dashed  like 
a thunderbolt  upon  the  column  beneath  them.  The  French, 
blown  and  exhausted,  inferior  besides  in  weight,  both  of  man  and 
horse,  offered  but  a short  resistance.  As  the  tall  com  bends 
beneath  the  sweeping  hurricane,  wave  succeeding  wave,  so  did 
the  steel-clad  squadrons  of  France  fall  before  the  nervous  arm  of 
Britain’s  cavalry.  Onward  they  went,  carrying  death  and  ruin 
before  them,  and  never  stayed  their  course,  until  the  guns  were 
recaptured,  and  the  cuirassiers,  repulsed,  disordered  and  broken, 
had  retired  beneath  the  protection  of  their  artillery. 

There  was,  as  a brilliant  and  eloquent  writer  on  the  subject 
mentions,  a terrible  sameness  in  the  whole  of  this  battle.  In- 
cessant charges  of  cavalry  upon  the  squares  of  our  infantry, 
whose  sole  maneuver  consisted  in  either  deploying  into  line  to 
resist  the  attack  of  infantry,  or  falling  back  into  square  when 
the  cavalry  advanced,  performing  those  two  evolutions  under 
the  devastating  fire  of  artillery,  before  the  unflinching  heroism  of 
that  veteran  infantry  whose  glories  had  been  reaped  upon  the 
blood-stained  fields  of  Austeriitz,  Marengo,  and  Wagram,  or 
opposing  an  unbroken  front  to  the  whuiwind  swoop  of  infuri- 
ated cavalry.  Such  were  the  enduring  and  devoted  services 
demanded  from  the  English  troops,  and  such  they  failed  not  to 
render.  Once  or  twice  had  temper  nearly  failed  them,  and  the 
cry  ran  through  the  ranks;  “Are  we  never  to  move  forward? 
Only  let  us  at  them!” 

But  the  word  was  not  yet  spoken  which  was  to  undam  the 
pent-up  torrent,  and  bear  down  with  unrelenting  vengeance 
upon  the  now  exulting  columns  of  the  enemy. 

It  was  six  o’clock;  the  battle  had  continued  with  imchanged 


m 


CHARLES  aMALLET. 


fortune  for  three  hours.  The  French , masters  of  La  Haye  Sainte, 
could  3 lever  advance  further  into  our  position.  They  had  gained 
the  orchard  of  Hougoumont,  but  the  chateau  was  still  held  by 
the  British  Guards,  although  its  blazing  roof  and  crumbling 
walls  made  its  occupatic:  rather  the  desperate  stand  of  un- 
flinching valor  than  the  maintenance  of  an  important  position. 
The  smoke  which  hung  Uj^jon  the  field  rolled  in  slow  and  heavy 
masses  back  upon  the  French  lines,  and  gradually  discovered  to 
us  the  entire  :rorce  of  the  army.  We  quickly  perceived  that  a 
change  was  akinfj  place  in  their  position.  The  troops  which  on 
the  left  stretched  far  beyond  Hougoumont,  were  now  moved 
nearer  to  the  center.  The  attack  upon  the  chateau  seemed  less 
vigorously  supported,  while  the  obhque  direction  of  their  right 
wing,  which  pivoting  upon  Planchenoit,  opposed  a face  to  the 
Prussians,  all  denoting  r.  change  in  their  order  of  battle.  It  was 
now  the  hour  when  Napoleon  was  at  last  convinced  that  noth  ng 
but  the  carnage  he  could  no  longer  support  could  destroy  the 
unyielding  ranks  of  British  infantry;  that  although  Hougoumont 
had  been  partially.  La  Haye  Sainte  completely  won;  that  upon 
the  right  of  the  road  the  farm-houses  Papelotte  and  La  Haye 
were  nearly  surrounded  by  his  troops,  which  with  any  other 
army  must  prove  the  forerunner  of  defeat;  yet  still  the  victory 
was  beyond  his  grasp.  The  bold  stratagems,  whose  success  the 
experience  of  a life  had  proved,  were  here  to  be  found  power- 
less. The  decisive  maneuver  of  carrying  one  important  point 
of  the  enemy’s  lines,  of  turning  him  upon  the  flank,  or  piercing 
him  through  the  center  were  here  found  impracticable.  He 
might  launch  his  avalanche  of  grape-shot,  he  might  pour  down 
his  crashing  columns  of  cavalry,  he  miglit  send  forth  the  iron 
storm  of  his  brave  infantry;  but  though  death  in  every  shape 
heralded  their  approach,  still  were  others  found  to  fill  the  fallen 
ranks,  and  feed  with  their  hearts’  blood  the  unslaked  thirst  for 
slaughter.  Well  might  the  gallant  leader  of  this  gallant  host,  as 
he  watched  the  reckless  onslaught  of  the  untiring  enemy,  and 
looked  upon  the  unflinching  few  who,  bearing  the  proud  badge 
Oi  Britain,  alone  sustained  the  fight,  well  might  he  exclaim  r 
‘Night  or  Blucherl” 

It  was  now  seven  o’clock,  when  a dark  mass  'was  seen  to 
form  upon  the  heights  above  the  French  center,  and  divide  into 
three  gigantic  columns,  of  which  the  right  occupied  the  Brus- 
sels road.  These  were  the  reserves,  consisting  of  the  Old  and 
Young  Guards,  and  amounting  to  twelve  thousand — the  elite 
of  the  French  army— reserved  by  the  Emperor  for  a great  coup- 
de-main.  These  veterans  of  a hundred  battles  had  been  sta- 
tioned, from  the  beginning  of  the  day,  inactive  spectators  of  the 
fight;  their  liour  was  no'w  come,  and  with  a shout  of  “ Vive 
VkmperenvP^  which  rose  triumphantly  over  the  din  and  crash  of 
battle,  they  began  their  march.  Meanwhile,  aides-de-camp  gal- 
loped along  the  lines,  announcing  the  arrival  of  Grouchy,  to 
reanimate  the  drooping  spirits  of  the  men;  for  at  last,  a doubt  of 
victory  was  breaking  upon  the  minds  of  those  who  never  before, 
in  the  most  adverse  hour  of  fortune,  deemed  hia  star  could  set 
that  led  them  on  to  glory. 


QBARLES  aMALLEY. 


m 


‘‘They  are  coming;  the  attack  will  be  made  on  the  center,  my 
lord,”  said  Lord  Fitzroy  Somerset,  as  he  directed  his  glass  upon 
the  column.  Scarcely  had  he  spoken  when  the  telescope  fell 
from  his  hand,  as  his  arm,  shattered  by  a French  bullet,  fell 
motionless  to  his  side. 

“ I see  it,”  was  the  cool  reply  of  the  Duke,  as  he  ordered  the 
Guards  to  deploy  into  line,  and  lie  down  behind  the  ridge,  which 
now  the  French  artillery  had  found  the  range  of,  and  were  la- 
boring at  their  guns.  In  front  of  them  the  Fifty-second,  Seventy- 
first  and  Ninety-fifth  were  formed;  the  artillery  stationed  above 
and  partly  upon  the  road,  loaded  with  grape,  and  waited  but 
the  word  to  open. 

It  was  an  awful,  a dreadful  moment;  the  Prussian  cannon 
thundered  on  our  left;  but,  so  desperate  was  the  French  resist- 
ance, they  made  but  little  progress;  the  dark  columns  of  the 
Guard  had  now  commenced  the  ascent,  and  the  artillery  ceased 
their  fire  as  the  bayonets  of  the  grenadiers  showed  themselves 
upon  the  slope.  Then  began  that  tremendous  cheer  from  right 
to  left  of  our  line  which  those  who  heard  never  can  forget.  It 
was  the  impatient,  long*  restrained  burst  of  unslaked  vengeance. 
With  the  instinct  which  valor  teaches,  they  knew  the  hour  of 
trial  was  come;  and  that  wild  cry  flew  from  rank  to  rank,  echo- 
ing from  the  blood-stained  walls  of  Hougoumont  to  the  far-off 
valley  of  La  Papelotte.  “ They  come!  they  come!”  was  the  cry, 
and  the  shout  of  “Five  VEmpereiirP^  mingled  with  the  outburst 
of  the  British  line. 

Under  an  overwhelming  shower  of  grape,  to  which  succeeded 
a charge  of  cavalry  of  the  Imperial  Guard,  the  head  of  Ney’s 
column  fired  its  volley  and  advanced  with  the  bayonet.  The 
British  artillery  now  opened  at  half  range,  and  although  the 
plunging  fire  scathed  and  devastated  the  dark  ranks  of  the 
Guards,  on  they  came;  Ney  himself,  on  foot,  at  their  head. 
Twice  the  leading  division  of  that  gallant  column  turned  com- 
pletely round,  as  the  withering  fire  wasted  and  consumed  them; 
but  they  were  resolved  to  win. 

Already  they  gained  the  crest  of  the  hill,  and  the  first  line  of 
tJie  British  were  falling  back  before  them.  The  artillery  closes 
up;  the  flanking  fire  from  the  guns  upon  the  road  opens  upon 
them;  the  head  of  the  column  breaks  like  a shell;  the  Duke  seizes 
the  moment,  and  advances  on  foot  toward  the  ridge. 

“ Up,  Guards,  and  at  them!”  he  cried. 

The  hour  of  triumph  and  vengeance  had  arrived.  In  a mo- 
ment the  Guards  were  upon  their  feet;  one  volley  was  poured  in; 
^he  bayonets  were  brought  to  the  charge;  they  closed  upon  the 
enemy;  then  was  seen  the  most  dreadful  struggle  that  the  his-» 
tory  of  war  can  present.  Furious  with  long-restrained  passion, 
the  Guards  rushed  upon  the  leading  divisions;  the  Seventy-first, 
and  Ninety-fifth,  and  Twenty-sixth  overlapped  them  on  the 
flanks.  Their  Generals  fell  quickly  on  every  side;  Michael, 
Jamier,  and  Mallet  are  killed;  Friant  lies  wounded  upon  the 
CTOund;  Ney,  his  dress  pierced  and  ragged  with  balls,  shouts  stiU 
to  advance;  but  the  leading  files  waver;  they  fall  back;  the  sup» 
porting  division  thickens;  confusion,  panic  succeeds;  the  Briti^ 


296 


(JHARLES  O'MALLEY. 


press  down;  the  cavalry  come  galloping  up  to  their  assistance; 
and,  at  last,  pell-mell,  overwhelmed  and  beaten,  the  lYench  fall 
back  upon  the  Old  Guard.  This  was  the  decisive  moment  of  the 
day — the  Duke  closed  his  glass,  as  he  said: 

The  field  is  won.  Order  the  whole  line  to  advance.” 

On  they  came,  four  deep,  and  poured  like  a torrent  from  th^ 
height. 

“ Let  the  Life  Guards  charge  them,”  said  the  Duke;  but  every 
aid-de-camp  on  his  staff  was  wounded,  and  I myself  brought  tht 
order  to  Lord  Uxbridge. 

Lord  Uxbridge  had  already  anticipated  his  orders,  and  bora 
down  with  four  regiments  of  heavy  cavalry  upon  the  French 
center.  The  Prussian  artillery  thundered  upon  their  flank,  and 
at  their  rear.  The  British  bayonet  was  in  their  front;  while  a 
panic  fear  spread  through  their  ranks,  and  the  cry  of  ^^Sauve 
qui  peiitl^'  resounded  on  all  sides.  In  vain  Ney,  the  bravest  of 
the  brave;  in  vain  Soult,  Bertrand,  Gourgaud,  and  Labedoyere 
burst  from  the  broken,  disorganized  mass,  and  called  on  them 
to  stand  fast.  A battalion  of  the  Old  Guard,  with  Cambronne 
at  their  head,  alone  obeyed  the  summons;  forming  into  a square, 
they  stood  between  the  pursuers  and  their  prey,  offering  them- 
selves a sacrifice  to  the  tarnished  honor  of  their  arms;  to  the 
order  to  surrender,  they  answered  with  a cry  of  defiance;  and, 
as  our  cavalry,  flushed  and  elated  with  victory,  rode  round 
their  bristling  ranks,  no  quailing  look,  no  craven  spirit  was 
there.  The  Emperor  himself  endeavored  to  repair  the  disaster; 
he  rode,  with  lightning  speed,  hither  and  thither,  commanding, 
ordering,  nay  imploring,  too;  but  already  the  night  was  falling, 
the  confusion  became  each  moment  more  inextricable,  and  the 
effort  was  a fruitless  one.  A regiment  of  the  Guards  and  two 
batteries  were  in  reserve  behind  Planchenoit;  he  threw  them 
rapidly  into  position;  but  the  overwhelming  impulse  of  flight 
drove  the  mass  upon  them,  and  they  were  carried  away  upon 
the  torrent  of  the  beaten  army.  No  sooner  did  the  Emperor 
see  this  his  last  hope  desert  him,  than  he  dismounted  from  his 
horse,  and,  drawing  his  sword,  threw  himself  into  a square, 
which  the  first  regiment  of  chasseurs  of  the  Old  Guard  had 
formed  with  a remnant  of  the  battalion;  Jerome  followed  him 
as  he  called  out; 

“You  are  right,  brother;  here  should  perish  all  who  bear  the 
name  of  Bonaparte.” 

The  same  moment  the  Prussian  light  artillery  rend  the  ranks 
asunder,  and  the  cavalry  charge  down  upon  the  scattered  frag- 
ments. A few  of  his  staff,  who  never  left  him,  place  the  Em- 
peror upon  a horse  and  fly  through  the  death-dealing  artillery 
and  musketry.  A squadron  of  the  Life  Guards,  to  which  I 
had  attached  myself,  came  up  at  the  moment,  and  as  Blu- 
cher’s  hussars  rode  niadly  here  and  there,  where  so  lately  the 
crowd  of  staff  officers  had  denoted  the  presence  of  Napoleon, 
expressed  their  rage  and  disappointment  in  curses  and  cries  of 
vengeance. 

Cambronne’s  battalion  stood  yet  unbroken,  and  seemed  to 
Aetj  every  attack  that  was  brought  against  them.  To  the 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


m 


second  summons  of  surrender  they  replied  as  indignantly  as  at 
first;  and  Vivian’s  brigade  was  ordered  to  charge  them.  A cloud 
of  British  horse  bore  down  on  every  face  of  the  devoted  square; 
but,  firm  as  in  their  hour  of  victory,  the  heroes  of  Marengo 
never  quailed;  and  twice  the  bravest  blood  of  Britain  recoiled, 
baffled  and  dismayed.  There  was  a pause  for  some  minutes, 
and  even  then,  as  we  surveyed  our  broken  and  blood-stained 
squadrons,  a cry  of  admiration  burst  from  our  ranks  at  the  ( 
gallant  bearing  of  that  glorious  infantry.  Suddenly  the  tramp 
of  approaching  cavalry  was  heard;  I turned  my  head  and  saw 
squadrons  of  the  Second  Life  Guards.  The  officer  who  led  them 
on  was  bare-headed;  his  long  dark  hair  streaming  wildly  behind 
him  and  upon  his  pale  features,  to  which  not  even  the  headlong 
enthusiasm  of  battle  had  lent  one  touch  of  color.  He  rode 
straight  to  where  I was  standing,  his  dark  eyes  fixed  upon  me, 
with  a look  so  fierce,  so  penetrating,^  that  I could  not  look 
away;  the  features,  save  in  this  respect,  had  almost  a look  of 
idiocy.  It  was  Hammersly. 

“ Ha!”  he  cried  at  last,  I have  sought  you  out  the  entire 
day,  but  in  vain.  It  is  not  yet  too  late.  Give  me  your  hand, 
boy.  You  once  called  on  me  to  follow  you,  and  I did  not  re- 
fuse; I trust  you’ll  do  the  same  by  me.  Is  it  not  so  ?” 

A terrible  perception  of  his  meaning  shot  through  my  mind 
as  I clasped  his  clay-cold  hand  in  mine,  and  for  a moment  I 
did  not  speak. 

‘‘I  hoped  for  better  than  this,”  said  he  bitterly,  and  as  a 
glance  of  withering  scorn  flashed  from  his  eye.  “ I did  trust 
that  he  who  was  preferred  before  me  was  at  least  not  a coward.” 

As  the  words  fell  from  his  lips  I nearly  leaped  from  my  sad- 
dle, and  mechanically  raised  my  saber  to  cleave  him  on  the 
spot. 

y Then  follow  me,”  shouted  he,  pointing  with  his  sword  to  the 
glistening  ranks  before  us. 

“ Come  on,”  said  I,  with  a voice  hoarse  with  passion,  while 
burying  my  spurs  in  my  horse’s  flanks,  I sprang  a full  length 
before  him,  and  bore  down  upon  the  enemy.  A loud  shout,  a 
deafening  volley,  the  agonizing  cry  of  the  wounded  and  the 
dying  were  all  I heard,  as  my  horse,  rearing  madly  upward, 
plunged  twice  into  the  air,  and  then  fell  dead  upon  the  earth, 
crushing  me  beneath  his  cumbrous  weight,  lifeless  and  insen- 
sible. 


The  day  was  breaking;  the  cold,  gray  light  of  morning  was 
struggling  through  the  misty  darkness  when  I once  more 
recovered  my  consciousness.  There  are  moments  in  life  when 
memory  can  so  suddenly  conjure  up  the  whole  past  before  us, 
that  there  is  scarcely  time  for  a doubt  ere  the  disputed  reality  is 
palpable  to  our  senses.  Such  was  this  to  me.  One  hunied 
glance  upon  the  wide,  bleak  plain  before  me,  and  every  circum- 
Itance  of  the  battle-field  was  present  to  my  recollection.  The 
tismounted  guns,  the  broken  wagons,  the  heaps  of  dead  or 
dying,  the  straggling  parties  who  on  foot  or  horseback  traversed 


29S  CHARLES  OMALLEY. 

the  field,  and  the  dark  litters  which  carried  the  wounded,  all 
betokened  the  sad  evidences  of  the  preceding  day’s  battle. 

Close  around  me  where  I lay  the  ground  was  marked  with 
the  bodies  of  our  cavalry,  intermixed  with  the  soldiers  of  the 
Old  Guard;  the  broad  brow  and  stalwart  chest  of  the  Saxon 
lay  bleaching  beside  the  bronzed  and  bearded  warrior  of  Gaul, 
while  the  torn-up  ground  attested  the  desperation  of  that 
struggle  which  closed  the  day. 

As  my  eye  ranged  over  this  harrowing  spectacle,  a dreadful 
anxiety  shot  through  me  as  I asked  myself  whose  had  been  the 
victory.  A certain  confused  impression  of  flight  and  of  pursuit 
remained  in  my  mind;  but,  at  the  moment,  the  circumstances 
of  my  own  position  in  the  early  part  of  the  day  increased  the 
difficulty  of  reflection,  and  left  me  in  a state  of  intense  and 
agonizing  uncertainty.  Although  not  wounded,  I had  been  so 
crushed  by  my  fall  that  it  was  not  without  pain  I got  upon  my 
legs.  I soon  perceived  that  the  spot  around  me  had  not  yet  been 
visited  by  the  vultures  of  the  battle-field  who  strip  alike  the  dead 
and  dying.  The  distance  of  the  place  from  where  the  great  con- 
flict of  the  battle  had  occurred  was  probably  the  reason;  and 
now,  as  the  straggling  sunbeams  fell  upon  the  earth,  I could 
trace  the  helmet  of  the  Enniskilleners,  or  the  tall  bear-skin  of 
the  Scotch  Grays,  lying  in  thick  confusion,  where  the  steel 
cuirass  and  long  sword  of  the  French  dragoons  showed  the  fight 
had  been  hottest.  As  I turned  my  eyes  hither  and  thither  I could 
see  no  living  thing  near  me.  In  every  attitude  of  struggling 
agony  they  lay  around,  some  buried  beneath  their  horses,  some 
bathed  in  blood,  some  with  clinched  hand  and  darting  eye-balls, 
seemed  struggling  even  in  death;  but  all  was  still,  not  a word, 
not  a sigh,  not  a groan  was  there. 

I was  turning  to  leave  the  spot,  and,  uncertain  which  way  to 
direct  my  steps,  looked  on,ce  more  around,  when  my  glance 
rested  upon  the  pale  and  marble  features  of  one  whom  even  in 
that  moment  of  doubt  and  difficulty  there  was  no  mistaking. 
His  coat,  torn  widely  open,  was  grasped  in  either  hand;  while 
his  breast  was  shattered  with  balls,  and  bathed  in  gore.  Gashed 
and  mutilated  as  he  lay,  still  the  features  wore  no  trace  of  suf- 
fering: cold,  pale,  motionless,  but  with  the  tranquil  look  of  sleep, 
his  eyelids  were  closed,  and  his  half-parted  lips  seemed  still  to 
quiver  in  life.  I knelt  down  beside  him;  I took  his  hand  in 
mine;  I bent  over  and  whispered  his  name;  I placed  my  hand 
upon  his  heart,  where  even  still  the  life-blood  was  warm — but  he 
was  dead.  Poor  Hammerslyl  His  was  a gallant  soul;  and,  as 
I looked  upon  his  blood-stained  corpse,  my  tears  fell  fast  upon 
his  brow  to  think  how  far  I had  myself  been  the  cause  of  a life 
blighted  in  its  hope,  and  a death  like  his. 


CHAPTER  CXX. 

BRUSSELS. 

Once  more  I would  entreat  my  reader’s  indulgence  for  the 
prolixity  of  a narrative,  which  has  grown  beneath  my  hands  to  a 
length  I had  never  intended.  This  shall,  however,  be  the  last 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY.  290 

time  for  either  the  offense  or  the  apology.  My  story  is  now  soon 
concluded. 

After  wandering  about  for  some  time,  uncertain  which  way  to 
take,  I at  length  reached  the  Charleroi  road,  now  blocked  by  car- 
riages and  wagons,  conveying  the  wounded  toward  Brussels. 
Here  I learned  for  the  first  time,  that  we  had  gained  the  battle, 
and  heard  of  the  total  annihilation  of  the  French  army,  and  the 
downfall  of  the  Emperor.  On  arriving  at  the  farm-house  of 
Mount  St.  Jean  I found  a number  of  officers,  wffiose  wounds  pre- 
vented their  accompanying  the  army  in  its  forward  movement. 
One  of  them,  with  whom  I was  slightly  acquainted,  informed 
me  that  General  Dash  wood  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  the 
night  upon  the  field  in  search  of  me,  and  that  my  servant, 
Mike,  was  in  a state  of  distraction  at  my  absence  that  bordered 
on  insanity.  While  he  was  speaking,  a burst  of  laughter  and 
the  tones  of  a well-remembered  voice  behind,  attracted  my  attem 
tion. 

‘‘Made  a very  good  thing  of  it,  upon  my  life.  A dressing  case 
— ^not  gold,  you  know,  but  silver  gilt — a dozen  knives,  with 
blood-stoned  handles,  and  a little  coffee-pot,  with  the  imj  serial 
arms — not  to  speak  of  three  hundred  Naps  in  a green  silk  pi>.rse— 
Lord  I it  reminds  me  of  the  Peninsula.  Do  you  know  those  Prus^ 
sians  are  mere  barbarians — haven’t  a notion  of  civilized  war. 
Bless  your  heart,  my  fellows  in  the  legion  would  have  ransacked 
the  whole  coach,  from  the  boot  to  the  sword-case,  in  half  the  tima 
they  took  to  cut  down  the  coachman.” 

“The  Major  I as  I live,”  said  I.  “How  goes  it.  Major?” 

“Eh,  Charley,  when  did  you  turn  up?  Delighted  to  see  you. 
They  told  me  you  were  badly  wounded,  or  kilted,  or  something 
of  that  kind;  but  I should  have  paid  the  little  debt  to  your 
executors  all  the  same.” 

“ All  the  same,  no  doubt,  Major;  but  where,  in  Heaven’s 
name,  did  you  fall  upon  that  mine  of  pillage  you  have  just  been 
talking,  of?” 

“ In  the  Emperor’s  carriage,  to  be  sure,  boy.  While  the  Duke 
was  watching  all  day  the  advance  of  Ney’s  columns,  and  keep- 
ing an  anxious  look-out  for  the  Prussians,  I sat  in  a window 
of  this  old  farm-house,  and  never  took  my  eye  off  the  garden  at 
Planchenoit.  I saw  the  imperial  carriage  there  in  the  morning 
— it  was  there  also  at  noon — and  they  never  put  the  horses  to  it 
till  past  seven  in  the  evening.  The  roads  were  very  heavy,  and 
the  crowd  was  great.  I judged  the  pace  couldn’t  be  a fast  one; 
and,  with  four  of  the  Enniskilleners,  I charged  it  like  a man. 
The  Prussians,  however,  had  the  start  of  us;  and,  if  they  hadn’t 
thought,  from  my  seat  on  horseback  and  my  general  appearence, 
that  I was  Lord  Uxbridge,  I should  have  got  but  a younger 
son’s  portion.  However,  I got  in  first,  filled  my  pockets  with  a 
few  little  souvenirs  of  the  Emperor^  and  then,  laying  my  hands 
upon  what  was  readiest,  got  out  in  time  to  escape  being  shot;  for 
two  of  Blucher’s  hussars,  thinking  I must  be  the  Emperor,  fired 
at  me  through  the  window.” 

“ What  an  escape  you  had!” 

Hadn’t  I,  though  ? Fortunate,  too,  my  Enniskilleners  saw 


300 


CHARLES  OMaLLEY. 


the  whole  thing;  for  I intend  to  make  the  circumstance  the 
ground  of  an  application  for  a pension.  Hark  ye,  Charley,  don’t 
say  anything  about  the  coffee-pot  and  the  knives;  the  Duke, 
you  know,  has  strange  notions  of  his  own  on  these  matters. 
But  isn’t  that  your  man  fighting  his  way  yonder  ?” 

“ Tare  an’  ages,  don’t  howld  me — that’s  himself— devil  a one 
else.” 


This  exclamation  came  from  Mickey  Free,  who,  with  his  dress 
torn  and  disheveled,  his  eyes  bloodshot  and  strained,  was  up- 
setting and  elbowing  all  before  him,  as  he  made  his  way  toward 
me  through  the  crowd. 

“ Take  that  fellow  to  the  guard-house.  Lay  hold  of  him,  Ser^ 
geant.  Knock  him  down.  Who  is  the  scoundrel  ?” 

Such  were  the  greetings  he  met  with  on  every  side.  Regardless 
of  everything  and  everybody,  he  burst  his  way  through  the 
dense  mass. 

“Oh,  murther!  oh,  Mary  I oh,  Moses!  Is  he  safe  here  after 
all?” 

The  poor  fellow  could  say  no  more,  but  burst  into  a torrent  of 
tears.  A roar  of  laughter  around  him  soon,  however,  turned 
the  current  of  his  emotions,  when,  dashing  the  scalding  drops 
from  his  ey€*.-lids,  he  glared  fiercely  like  a tiger  on  every  side. 

“ You*re  laughing  at  me,  are  ye,”  cried  he,  “ bekase  I love  the 
hand  that  fed  me,  and  the  master  that  stood  to  me  ? But  let  us 
see  now  which  of  us  two  has  the  stoutest  heart;  you,  with 
your  grin  on  you,  or  myself  with  the  salt  tears  on  my  face.” 

As  he  spoke,  he  sprang  upon  them  like  a madman,  striking 
right  and  left  at  everything  before  him.  Down  they  went  be- 
neath his  blows,  levelled  with  the  united  strength  of  energy  and 
passion,  till  at  length,  rushing  upon  him  in  numbers,  he  was 
overpowered  and  thrown  to  the  ground.  It  was  with  some  dif- 
ficulty I accomplished  his  rescue;  for  his  enemies  felt  by  no 
means  assured  how  far  his  amicable  propensities  for  the  future 
could  be  relied  upon;  and,  indeed,  Mike  himself  had  a most  con- 
stitutional antipathy  to  bin(«ing  himself  by  any  pledge. 

With  some  persuasion,  however,  I reconciled  all  parties;  and 
having  by  the  kindness  of  a brother  officer  provided  myself  with 
a couple  of  troop  horses,  I mounted  and  set  out  for  Brussels, 
followed  by  Mickey,  who  had  effectually  cured  his  auditory  of 
any  tendency  to  laughter  at  his  cost. 

As  I rode  up  the  Bellevue,  I saw  Sir  George  Dashwood  in  the 
window.  He  was  speaking  to  the  Embassador,  Lord  Clancarty; 
but  the  moment  he  caught  my  eye,  hurried  down  to  meet  me. 

“ Charley,  safe— safe,  my  boy.  Now  I am  really  happy.  The 
glorious  day  had  been  one  of  sorrow  to  me  for  the  rest  of  my 
life,  had  anything  happened  to  you.  Come  up  with  me  at  once; 
I have  more  than  one  friend  here  who  longs  to  thank  you.” 

So  saying,  he  hurried  me  along,  and  before  I could  well 
remember  where  I was,  introduced  me  to  a number  of  persons  in 
the  saloon. 

“Ah,  very  happy  to  know  yon,  sir,”  said  Lord  Clancarty; 
“ perhaps  we  had  better  walk  this  way.  My  friend  Dashwood 


CHARLES  &M ALLEY, 


B01 


has  explained  to  me  the  very  pressing  reasons  there  are  for  this 
step;  and  I,  for  my  part,  see  no  objection.” 

“ What  in  Heaven’s  name  can  he  mean !”  thought  I,  as  he 
stopped  short,  expecting*  me  to  say  something,  vdiile  in  utter 
conmsion  I siniled,  simpered,  and  muttered  some  flat  nothings. 

‘‘I^ve  and  war,  sir,”  resumed  the  Embassador,  ‘‘very  ad- 
mirable associates,  and  you  certainly  have  contrived  to  couple 
them  most  closely  together.  A long  attachment,  I believe.” 

“Yes,  sir,  a very  long  attachment,”  stammered  I,  not  knowing 
which  of  us  was  about  to  become  insane. 

“ A very  charming  person,  indeed;  I have  seen  the  lady,”  re- 
plied his  lordship,  as  he  opened  the  door  of  a small  room,  and 
beckoned  me  to  follow.  The  table  was  covered  with  materials 
for  writing;  but  before  I had  time  to  ask  for  any  explanation  of 
this  unaccountable  mystery,  he  added:  “ Oh,  I was  forgetting, 
this  must  be  witnessed;  wait  one  moment.” 

With  these  words  he  left  the  room,  while  I,  amazed  and 
thunderstruck,  vacillating  between  fear  and  hope,  trembling 
lest  the  delusive  glimmering  of  happiness  should  give  way  at 
the  very  moment,  and  yet  totally  unable  to  explain  by  any  possi- 
ble supposition  how  fortune  could  so  far  have  favored  me. 

While  yet  I stood  hesitating  and  uncertain,  the  door  opened 
and  the  senora  entered.  She  looked  a little  pale,  though  not  less 
beautiful  than  ever;  and  her  features  wore  a slight  trace  of  seri- 
ousness, which  rather  heightened  than  took  from  the  character 
of  her  loveliness. 

“I  heard  you  had  come,  chevalier,”  said  she,  “and  so  I ran 
down  to  shake  hands  with  you;  we  may  not  meet  again  for  some 
time.” 

“ How  so,  senora  ? You  are  not  going  to  leave  us,  I trust  ?” 

“Then  you  have  not  seen  Fred?  Oh,  I forgot,  you  know 
nothing  of  our  plans.” 

“Here  we  are  at  last,”  said  the  Embassador,  as  he  came  in, 
followed  by  Sir  George,  Power,  and  two  other  officers.  “Ah, 
ma  belle,  how  fortunate  to  And  you  here!  I assure  you  it  is  a 
matter  of  no  small  difficulty  to  get  people  together  at  such  a time 
as  this.” 

“Charley,  my  dear  friend,”  cried  Power,  “I  scarcely  hoped  to 
have  had  a shake  hands  with  you  ere  I left.”  ^ 

“ Do,  Fred,  tell  me  what  all  this  means.  I am  in  a perfet  maze 
of  doubt  and  difficulty,  and  cannot  comprehend  a word  I hear 
about  me.” 

“ Faith,  my  boy,  I have  little  time  for  explanation.  The  man 
who  was  at  Waterloo  yesterday,  is  to  be  married  to-morrow,  and 
to  sail  for  India  in  a week,  has  quite  enough  upon  his  hands.” 

“Colonel  Power,  you  will  please  to  put  your  signature  here,” 
said  Lord  Clancarty,  addressing  himself  to  me. 

“If  you  will  allow  me,”  said  Fred,  “I  had  rather  represent 
myself.” 

“ Is  not  this  the  Colonel,  then  ? Why,  confound  it,  I have  been 
wishing  him  joy  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour.” 

A burst  of  laughter  from  the  whole  party,  in  which  it  wa 
pretty  evident  I took  no  part,  followed  this  announcement. 


30^ 


CHARLES  aMALLET. 


I stammered  out  something,  while,  overwhelmed  with  confu* 
sion,  I stooped  down  to  sign  the  paper.  Scarcely  had  I done  so, 
when  a renewed  burst  of  laughter  broke  from  the  party. 

“Nothing  but  blunders,  upon  my  soCil,”  said  the  Embassador, 
as  he  handed  the  paper  from  one  to  another. 

What  was  my  confusion  to  discover  that,  instead  of  Charles 
O’Malley,  I had  written  the  name,  Lucy  Dashwood  I could 
bear  no  more.  The  laughter  and  raillery  of  my  friends  came 
upon  my  wounded  and  irritated  feelings  like  the  most  poignant 
sarcasm.  I seized  my  cap  and  rushed  from  the  room.  Desirous 
of  escaping  from  all  that  knew  me,  anxious  to  bury  my  agitated 
and  distracted  thoughts  in  solitude  and  quiet,  I opened  the  first 
door  before  me,  and,  seeing  it  an  empty  and  unoccupied  room, 
threw  myself  upon  a sofa  and  buried  my  head  within  my 
hands.  Oh!  how  often  had  the  phantom  of  happiness  passed 
within  my  reach,  but  still  glided  from  my  grasp.  How  often 
had  I beheld  the  goal  T aimed  at,  as  it  were,  before  me,  and  Cne 
next  moment  all  the  bleak  reality  of  my  evil  fortune  was  low- 
ering around  me. 

“ Oh,  Lucy!  Lucy!”  I exclaimed  aloud;  “but  for  you,  and  a 
few  words  carelessly  spoken,  I had  never  trod  that  path  of  am- 
bition, whose  end  has  been  the  wreck  of  all  my  happiness.  But 
for  you  I had  never  loved  so  fondly;  had  never  filled  my  mind 
with  one  image  which,  excluding  every  other  thought,  leaves 
no  pleasure  but  in  it  alone.  Yes,  Lucy,  but  for  you  1 should 
have  gone  tranquilly  down  the  streani  of  life  with  naught  of 
grief  or  care,  save  such  as  are  inseparable  from  the  passing 
chances  of  mortality;  loved,  perhaps,  and  cared  for  by  some  one 
who  would  have  deemed  it  no  disgrace  to  have  linked  her  fortune 
with  my  own.  But  for  you  I had  never  been ” 

“A  soldier  you  would  say,”  whispered  a soft  voice,  as  a light 
hand  gently  touched  my  shoulder.  “ I had  come,”  continued 
she,  “to  thank  you  for  a gift  no  gratitude  can  repay — my 
father  s life;  but  truly  I did  not  think  to  hear  the  words  you 
have  spoken,  nor,  having  heard  them,  can  I feel  their  justice. 
No,  Mr.  O’Malley,  deeply  grateful  as  I am  to  you  for  the  service 
you  once  rendered  myself,  bound  as  I am  by  every  tie  of  thank- 
fulness, by  the  greater  one  to  my  father,  yet  do  I feel  that  in  the 
impulse  I have  given  to  your  life,  if  so  be  that  to  me  you  owe  it, 
I have  done  more  to  repay  my  debt  to  you,  than  by  all  the 
friendship,  all  the  esteem  I owe  you;  if,  indeed,  by  my  means 
you  became  a soldier;  if  ray  few  and  random  words  raised  with- 
in your  breast  that  fire  of  ambition  which  has  been  your  beacon 
light  to  honor  and  to  glory,  then  I am,  indeed,  proud.” 

“Alas!  alas!  Lucy — Miss  Dashwood  I would  say — forgive  me 
if  I know  not  the  very  words  I utter.  How  has  my  career  ful- 
filled the  promise  that  gave  it  birth?  For  you,  and  you  only, 
to  gain  your  affection,  to  win  your  heart,  I became  a soldier; 
hardship;  danger,  even  death  itself  were  courted  by  me,  sup- 
ported by  the  one  thought,  that  you  had  cared  for,  or  had  pitied 
me;  and  now,  now ” 

“ And  now,”  said  she,  while  her  eves  beamed  upon  me  with  a 
very  flood  of  tenderness,  “ is  it  nothing  that  in  my  woman’s 


CHARLES  SMALLEY. 


308 


heart  I have  glowed  with  pride  at  triumphs  I could  read  of  bu^ 
dared  not  share  in  ? Is  it  nothiag  that  you  have  lent  to  my 
hours  of  solitude  and  of  musing  the  fervor  of  that  career,  the 
maddeniug  enthusiasm  of  that  glorious  path  my  sex  denied  me? 
I have  followed  you  in  my  thoughts  across  the  burning  plains  of 
the  Peninsula,  through  the  long  hours  of  the  march  in  the 
dreary  nights,  even  to  the  battle-field.  I have  thought  of  you; 
I have  dreamed  of  you;  I have  prayed  for  you.” 

Alas!  Lucy,  but  not  loved  me.” 

The  very  words,  as  I spoke  them,  sank  with  a despairing  ca- 
dence upon  my  heart.  Her  hand,  which  had  fallen  upon  mine, 
trembled  violently;  I pressed  my  lips  upon  it,  but  she  moved  it 
not.  I dared  to  look  up,  her  head  was  turned  away,  but  her 
heaving  bosom  betrayed  her  emotion. 

“ No,  no,  Lucy,”  cried  I passionately,  I will  not  deceive  my- 
self, I ask  for  more  than  you  can  give  me.  Farewell!” 

Now,  and  for  the  last  time,  I pressed  her  hand  once  more  to 
my  lips,  my  hot  tears  fell  fast  upon  it.  I turned  to  go.  and 
threw  one  last  look  upon  her.  Our  eyes  met — I cannot  say 
what  it  was — but,  in  a moment,  the  whole  current  of  my 
thoughts  was  changed;  her  look  was  bent  upon  me,  beaming 
with  softness  and  affection,  her  hand  gently  pressed  my  own, 
and  her  lips  murmured  my  name. 

The  door  burst  open  at  this  moment  and  Sir  George  Dash  wood 
appeared;  Lucy  turned  one  fleeting  look  upon  her  father,  and 
fell  fainting  into  my  arms, 

**  God  bless  you,  my  boy,”  said  the  old  General,  as  he  hurriedly 
viped  a tear  from  his  eye,  “ I am  now  indeed  a happy  father.” 


CHAPTER  CXXI. 

CONCLUSION. 

The  sun  had  set  about  half  an  hour.  Already  were  the  dusky 
shadows  blending  with  the  faint  twilight,  as  on  a lovely  July 
evening  we  entered  the  little  village  of  Portumna;  we,  I say; 
for  Lucy  was  beside  me.  For  the  last  few  miles  of  the  way  I had 
spoken  little;  thoughts  of  many  times  I had  traveled  that  same 
road,  in  how  many  moods,  occupied  my  mind,  and  although,  as 
we  flew  rapidly  along,  some  well-known  face  would  every  now 
and  then  present  itself,  I had  but  time  for  the  recognition  ere  we 
were  past.  Arousing  myself  from  my  reverie,  I was  pointing  out 
to  Lucy  certain  well-known  spots  in  the  landscape,  and  direct- 
ing her  attention  to  places,  with  the  names  of  which  she  had  been 
for  sometime  familiar,  when  suddenly  a loud  shout  rent  the  air, 
and  the  next  moment  the  carriage  was  surrounded  by  hundreds 
of  country  people,  some  of  whom  brandished  blazing  pine  torch- 
es; others  carried  rude  banners  in  their  hands;  but  all  testified 
the  most  fervent  joy  as  they  bade  us  welcome.  The  horses  were 
speedily  unharnessed,  and  their  places  occupied  by  a crowd  of 
every  age  and  sex,  who  hurried  us  along  through  tiie  straggling 
street  of  the  village,  now  a perfect  blaze  of  bonfires. 

Mounds  of  turf,  bog -fir,  and  tar- barrels,  sent  up  their  ruddy 
blaze,  while  hundreds  of  wild,  but  happy  faces  flitted  around 


304 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


and  through  them — now  dancing  merrily  in  chorus;  now  plung- 
ing madly  into  the  midst  of  the  fire,  and  scattering  the  red  em- 
bers on  every  side.  Pipers  were  there,  too,  mounted  upon  cars 
or  turf-kishes;  even  the  very  roof-tops  rang  out  their  merry 
notes;  the  ensigns  of  the  little  fishing-craft  waved  in  the  breeze, 
and  seemed  to  feel  the  general  joy  around  them,  while  over  the 
door  of  the  village  inn  stood  a brilliantly  lighted  transparency, 
representing  "he  head  of  the  O'Malleys  holding  a very  scantily- 
robed  young  lady  by  the  tips  of  the  fingers;  but  whether  this 
damsel  was  intended  to  represent  the  Genius  of  the  West,  or  my 
wife,  I did  not  venture  to  inquire. 

If  the  welcome  were  rude,  assuredly  it  was  a hearty  one. 
Kind  wishes  and  blessings  jjoured  in  on  every  side,  and  ev^en  our 
own  happiness  took  i brighter  coloring  from  the  beaming  looks 
around  us.  The  scene  was  wild;  the  lurid  glare  of  the  red  torch- 
light, the  franlic  gestures,  the  maddening  shouts,  the  forked 
flames,  rising  amidst  the  dark  shadows  of  the  little  hamlet,  had 
something  strange  and  almost  unearthly  in  their  effect;  but 
Lucy  showed  no  touch  of  fear;  it  is  tiue  she  grasped  my  hand 
a little  closer,  but  her  fair  cheek  glowed  with  pleasure,  and  her 
eye  brightened  as  she  looked,  and,  as  the  rich  fight  fell  upon  her 
beauteous  features,  how  many  a blessing,  heartfelt  and  deep, 
how  many  a word  of  fervent  praise  was  spoken. 

“ Ah  I then  the  Lord  be  good  to  you;  it’s  yourself  has  the  dar- 
ling blue  eyes.  Look  at  them,  Mary;  ain’t  they  like  the  blossoms 
on  a peacock’s  tail  ? Musha,  may  sorrow  never  put  a crease  on 
that  beautiful  cheek!  the  saints  watch  over  you!  for  your  mouth 
is  like  a moss-rose.  Be  good  to  her,  yer  honor,  for  she’s  a real 
gem;  devil  fear  you,  Mr.  Charles,  but  you’d  have  a beauty.” 

We  wended  our  way  slov  ly,  the  crowd  ever  thickening  around 
us,  until  we  reached  the  market-place.  Here  the  procession 
came  to  a stand,  and  I could  perceive  by  certain  efforts  around 
me  that  some  endeavor  was  making  to  enforce  silence. 

^‘Whisht  there;  hould  your  prate;  be  still,  Paddy.  Tare  an’ 
ages,  Molly  Blake,  don't  be  holding  me  that  way;  let  us  hear 
his  reverence;  put  him  up  on  the  barrel;  haven’t  you  got  a chair 

for  the  priest  ? Run  and  bring  a table  out  of  Mat  Haley’s 

Here,  father — here,  your  reverence;  take  care,  will  you?  you’ll 
have  the  holy  man  in  the  blaze!” 

By  this  time  I could  perceive  that  my  worthy  old  friend.  Fath- 
er Rush,  was  in  the  midst  of  the  mob,  with  what  appeared  to 
be  a written  oration,  as  long  as  the  tail  of  a kite,  between  his 
hands. 

“ Be  aisy  there,  ye  savages — who’s  tearing  the  back  of  my 
neck?  Howld  me  up  straight — steady,  now — hem  !” 

“ Take  the  last  taste  in  life  to  wet  your  lips,  your  riverence,” 
said  a kind  voice,  while  at  the  same  moment  a smoking  tum- 
bler of  what  seemed  to  be  punch  appeared  on  the  heads  of  the 
crowd. 

“Thank  ye,  Judy,”  said  the  father,  as  he  drained  the  cup. 

‘ ‘ Howld  the  light  up  higher;  I can’t  read  my  speech;  there,  now, 
be  quiet,  will  ye?  Here  goes.  Peter,  stand  to  me  now,  and 
give  me  the  word.” 


CHARLES  aMALLEY. 


805 


This  admonition  was  addressed  to  a figure  on  a barrel  behind 
the  priest,  who,  as  well  as  the  imperfect  light  would  permit  me 
to  descry,  was  the  coadjutor  of  the  parish,  Peter  Nolan.  Silence 
being  perfectly  establisiied,  Father  Rush  began: 

“ When  Mars,  the  god  of  war,  on  high, 

Of  battles  first  did  think, 

He  girt  his  sword  upon  his  thigh, 

And 

“ And  what  is  it,  Peter  ?” 

“ And  mixed  a drop  of  drink.” 

‘‘  And  mixed  a drop  of  drink,”  quoth  Father  Rush,  with  great 
emphasis;  when  scarcely  were  the  words  spoken  than  a loud 
shout  of  laughter  showed  him  his  mistake,  and  he  overturned 
upon  the  luckless  curate  the  full  vial  of  his  wrath. 

What  is  it  you  mean.  Father  Peter ! I’m  ashamed  of  ye; 
faith,  it’s  may  be  yourself,  not  Mars,  you  are  speaking  of.” 

The  roar  around  prevented  me  from  hearing  what  passed — but 
I could  see  by  Peter’s  gestures— for  it  was  too  dark  to  see  his 
face — that  he  was  expressing  deep  sorrow  for  the  mistake.  After 
a little  time  order  was  again  established,  and  Father  Rush  re- 
sumed: 

**  But  love  drove  battles  from  his  head, 

And,  sick  of  wounds  and  scars, 

To  Venus  bright  he  knelt  and  said 

And  said — and  said;  what  the  blazes  did  he  say?” 

“I’ll  make  you  Mrs.  Mars,” 

shouted  Peter,  loud  enough  to  be  heard. 

“ Bad  -ck  to  you,  Peter  Nolan,  it’s  yoursilf’s  the  ruin  of  me  this 
blessed  night.  Here  have  I come  four  miles  with  my  speech  in 
my  pocket,  per  impres  e ignesJ*  ” Here  the  crowd  blessed  them- 
selves devoutly.  “ Ay,  just  so;  and  he  spoilt  it  for  me  entirely.” 

At  the  earnest  entreaty,  however,  of  the  crowd.  Father  Rush, 
with  renewed  caution  to  his  unhappy  prompter,  again  returned 
to  the  charge. 

“ Thus  love  compelled  the  god  to  yield, 

And  seek  for  purer  joys; 

He  laid  aside  his  helm  and  shield, 

And  took 

Took— took 

“And  took  to  corduroys,” 
cried  Father  Nolan, 

This  time,  however,  the  good  priest’s  patience  could  endure  no 
more,  and  he  leveled  a blow  at  his  luckless  colleague,  which, 
missing  its  aim,  lost  him  his  own  balance,  and  brought  him  down 
from  his  eminence  upon  the  heads  of  the  mob. 

Scarcely  had  I recovered  from  the  perfect  convulsion  of  laugh- 
ter into  which  tliis  scene  had  thrown  me,  when  the  loroad  brim 
of  Father  Nolan’s  hat  appeared  at  the  window  of  the  carriage. 
Before  1 bad  time  to  address  him^  he  took  it  reverently  from  his 


306  CHARLES  CMALLET. 

head,  disclosing  in  the  act  the  ever-memorable  features  of  Master 
Frank  Webber. 

“ What  I Eh  I Can  it  be,”  said  I. 

It  is  surely  not,”  said  Lucy,  hesitating  at  the  name. 

‘‘  Your  aunt,  Miss  Judy  Macan.  No  more  than  the  Eev.  Peter 
Nolan.  I assure  you;  though,  I confess,  it  has  cost  me  much 
more  to  personate  the  latter  character  than  the  former,  and  the 
reward  by  no  means  so  tempting.” 

Here  poor  Lucy  blushed  deeply  at  the  remembrance  of  the 
scene  alluded  to;  and,  anxious  to  turn  the  conversation,  asked 
by  what  stratagem  he  had  succeeded  to  the  functions  of  the 
worthy  Peter? 

At  the  cost  of  twelve  tumblers  of  the  strongest  punch  ever 
brewed  at  the  O'Malley  Arms.  The  good  father  gave  in  only 
ten  minutes  before  the  oration  began;  and  I had  barely  time  to 
change  my  dress  and  mount  the  barrel,  without  a moment’s 
preparation.” 

The  procession  once  more  resumed  its  march,  and  hurried 
along  through  the  town;  we  soon  reached  the  avenue.  Here 
fresh  preparations  for  welcoming  us  had  also  been  made ; but 
regardless  of  blazing  tar-barrels  and  burning  logs,  the  reckless 
crowd  pressed  madly  on,  their  wild  cheers  making  the  echoes  as 
they  went.  We  soon  reached  the  house,  but  with  " courtesy 
which  even  the  humblest  and  poorest  native  of  this  country  is 
never  devoid  of,  the  preparations  of  noise  and  festivity  had  not 
extended  to  the  precincts  of  the  dwelling.  With  a tact  which 
those  01  higher  birth  and  older  blood  might  be  proud  of,  they 
limited  the  excesses  of  their  reckless  and  careless  memment  to 
their  own  village;  so  that,  as  we  approached  the  terrace,  all 
was  peaceful,  still,  and  quiet. 

I lifted  Lucy  from  the  carriage,  and  passing  my  arm  around 
her,  wa  assisting  her  to  mount  the  steps  when  a bright  gleam  of 
moonlight  burst  forth,  and  lit  up  the  whole  scene.  It  was,  in- 
deed, an  impressive  one,  among  the  assembled  hundreds  there 
who  stood  bare  headed,  beneath  the  cold  moonlight,  not  a word 
was  now  spoken,  not  a whisper  stirred.  I turned  from  the 
lawn,  where  the  tall  beech  trees  were  throwing  their  gigantic 
shadows,  to  where  the  river,  peering  at  intervals  through  the 
foliage,  was  flowing  on  its  silver  track,  plashing  amid  the  tall 
flaggers  that  lined  its  banks;  all  were  familiar,  all  were  dear  to 
me  from  childhood.  How  doubly  were  they  so  nowl  I lifted 
up  my  e3’^es  toward  the  door,  and  what  was  my  surprise  at  the 
object  before  them.  Seated  in  a large  chair,  was  an  old  man, 
whose  white  hair,  flowing  in  straggling  masses  upon  his  neck 
and  shoulders,  stirred  with  the  night  air;  his  hands  rested  upon 
his  knees,  and  his  eyes,  turned  slightly  upward,  seemed  to  seek 
for  some  one  he  found  it  difficult  to  recognize.  Changed  as  he 
was  by  time,  heavily  as  years  had  done  their  work  upon  him, 
the  stern  features  were  not  to  be  mistaken;  but,  as  I looked,  he 
called  out  in  a voice  whose  unshaken  firmness  seemed  to  defy 
the  touch  of  time: 

“ Charley  O'Malley  I come  here,  my  boy.  Bring  her  to  me  till 
I bless  you  both.  I’ve  done  you  much  wu’ong;  but  you’ll  forgive 


CHARLES  O^MALLEY. 


mi 

an  old  mail  who  never  asked  as  much  from  any  other  living. 
Come  here,  Lucy;  I may  call  you  so.  Come  here,  my  children. 
I have  tried  to  live  on  to  see  this  day,  when  the  head  of 
an  old  house  comes  back  with  honor,  with  fame,  and  with 
fortune,  to  dwell  amid  his  own  people  in  the  old  home  of  his 
fathers. 

The  old  man  bent  above  us,  his  white  hair  falling  upon  the 
fair  locks  of  her  who  knelt  beside  him,  and  pressed  his  cold  and 
quivering  hand  within  her  own. 

“Yes,  Lucy,”  said  I,  as  I led  her  within  the  house,  “this  is 
home.” 

Here  now  ends  my  story.  The  patient  reader  who  has  fol- 
lowed me  so  far,  deserves  at  my  hands  that  I should  not  trespass 
upon  his  kindness  one  moment  beyond  the  necessity;  if,  how- 
ever, any  lurking  interest  may  remain,  for  some  of  those  who 
have  accompanied  me  through  this,  my  history,  it  may  be  as  well 
that  I should  say  a few  words  further  ere  they  disappear  for- 
ever. 

Power  went  to  India,  immediately  after  his  marriage,  distin- 
guished himself  repeatedly  in  the  Burnese  war,  and  finally  rose 
to  a high  command,  that  he  this  moment  holds,  with  honor  to 
himself  and  advantage  to  his  country. 

O’Shaiighnessy,  on  half-pay.  wanders  about  the  Continent; 
passing  his  summers  on  the  Rhine,  his  winters  at  Florence  or 
Geneva.  Known  to  and  by  everybody,  his  interest  in  the  ser- 
vice keeps  him  au  courant  to  every  change  and  regulation,  ren- 
dering him  an  invaluable  companion  to  all  to  whom  an  army 
list  is  inaccessible.  He  is  the  same  good  fellow  he  ever  was, 
and  adds  to  his  many  excellent  qualities  the  additional  one  of 
being  the  only  man  who  can  make  a bull  in  French. 

Monsoon,  the  Major,  when  last  I saw  him,  ^vas  standing  on 
the  pier  at  Calais,  endeavoring  with  a cheap  telescope,  to  make 
out  the  Dover  cliffs,  from  a nearer  prospect  of  which  certain 
little  family  circumstances  might  possibly  debar  him.  He  rec- 
ognized me  in  a moment,  and  held  out  his  hand,  while  his  eyes 
winked  with  his  ancient  drollery. 

“ Charley,  my  son,  how  goes  it  ? delighted  to  see  you.  What 
a pity  I did  not  meet  you  yesterday.  Had  a little  dinner  at  Cril- 
lon’s.  Harding,  Vivian  and  a few  others;  they  all  wished  for 
you,  ’pon  my  life  they  did.” 

Civil,  certainly,  thought  I,  as  I have  not  the  honor  of  being 
known  to  them. 

“You  are  at  Meurice’s,”  resumed  he;  “a  very  good  house, 
but  give  you  bad  wine,  if  they  don’t  know  you;  they  know  me,” 
added  he  in  a whisper;  “ never  try  any  tricks  upon  me.  I’ll  just 
drop  in  upon  you  at  six.” 

“ It’s  most  unfortunate.  Major,  I can’t  have  the  pleasure  you 
speak  of;  we  start  in  half  an  hour.” 

“ Never  mind,  Charley,  never  mind — another  time.  By  the 
bye,  now  I think  of  it,  don’t  you  remember  something  of  a ten- 
pound  note  you  owe  me  ?” 

“As  well  as  I remember.  Major,  the  circumstance  was  re- 
yersed;  you  are  the  debtor.” 


ms 


CHARLES  aUALLEt. 


“ Upcn  my  life  you  are  right;  how  drolll  No  matter;  let  me 
have  the  ten,  and  I’ll  give  you  a check  for  the  whole.” 

The  Major  thrust  his  tongue  into  his  cheek,  as  he  spoke,  gave 
another  leer,  pocketed  the  note,  and  sauntered  down  the  pier, 
muttering  something  to  himself  about  King  David  and  green- 
horns; but  how  they  were  connected  I could  not  precisely  over- 
hear. 

Baby  Blake,  or  Mrs.  Sparks,  to  call  her  by  her  more  fitting  ap- 
pellation, is  a fine,  fat,  cbmely,  good-looking  and  gaudily- 
dressed  woman,  going  through  life  as  happily  as  needs  be,  her 
greatest  difficulties  and  her  severest  trials  being  her  inefifectual 
efforts  to  convert  Sparks  into  something  like  a man  for  Galway. 

Last  of  all,  Mickey  Free.  Mickey  remains  attached  to  our  foit- 
une  firmly,  as  at  first  he  opened  his  career;  the  same  gay,  rol- 
licksome  Irishman;  making  songs,  making  love,  and  occasion- 
ally making  punch,  he  spends  his  days  and  nights  pretty  much 
as  he  was  wont  to  do  some  thirty  years  ago.  He  obtains  an  oc- 
casional leave  of  absence  for  a week  or  so,  but  for  what  pre- 
cise purpose,  or  with  what  exact  pbject,  I have  never  been  com- 
pletely able  to  ascertain.  1 1 ave  heard  it  as  true,  that  a very 
fascinating  companion  and  a most  agreeable  gentleman  frequents 
a certain  oyster-liouse  in  Dublin  called  Burton  Bindon’s.  I have 
also  been  told  of  a distinguished  foreigner,  whose  black  mus- 
tache and  broken  English  were  the  admiration  of  Cheltenham  for 
the  last  two  winters.  I greatly  fear  from  the  high  tone  of  the 
conversation  in  the  former,  and  for  the  taste  in  continental 
character  in  the  latter  resort,  that  I could  fix  upon  the  individ- 
ual whose  convivial  and  social  gifts  have  won  so  much  of  their 
esteem  and  admiration,  but  were  I to  run  on  thus,  I should  re- 
cur to  every  character  of  my  story,  with  each  and  all  of  whom 
you  have,  doubtless,  grown  well  wearied;  so  here,  for  the  last 
time,  and  with  every  kind  wish,  Isay — adieu  I 

L’ENYOL 

Kind  Friends, — It  is  somewhat  unfortunate  that  the  record 
of  the  happiest  portion  of  my  friend’s  life  should  prove  the  sad- 
dest part  of  my  duty  as  his  editor,  and  for  this  reason,  that  it 
brings  me  to  the  spot  where  my  acquaintance  with  you  must 
close,  and  sounds  the  hour  when  I must  say — good-bye. 

They  who  have  never  felt  the  mysterious  link  that  binds  the 
solitary  scribe  in  his  lonely  study  to  the  circle  of  his  readers, 
can  form  no  adequate  estimate  of  what  his  feelings  are  when 
that  chain  is  about  to  be  broken — they  know  not  how  often,  in 
the  fictitious  garb  of  his  narrative,  he  has  clothed  the  inmost 
workings  of  his  heart — they  know  not  how  frequently  was  spok- 
en aloud  his  secret  thoughts,  revealing , as  though  to  a dearest 
friend,  the  springs  of  his  action,  the  causes  of  his  sorrow,  the 
sources  of  his  hope;  they  cannot  believe  in  what  a sympathy  he 
is  bound  to  those  who  bow  their  heads  above  his  pages — they  do 
not  think  how  the  ideal  creations  of  his  brain  are  like  mutual 
friends  between  him  and  the  world,  through  whom  he  is  known 
and  felt  and  thought  of,  and  by  whom  he  reaps  in  his  own 
heart  the  rich  harvest  of  flattery  and  kindness  that  are  rarely  re- 


CHARLES  a MALLET. 


809 


fused  to  any  effort  to  please,  however  poor — however  humble. 
They  know  not  this,  nor  can  they  feel  the  hopes,  the  fears  that 
stir  within  him  to  earn  some  passing  word  of  praise — nor  think 
they,  when  won,  what  brightness  around  his  humble  hearth  it 
may  be  shedding.  These  are  the  rewards  for  nights  of  toil  and 
days  of  thought — ^these  are  the  recompenses  which  pay  the  hag- 
gard cheek,  the  sunken  eye,  the  racked  and  tired  head.  These 
are  the  stakes  for  which  one  plays  his  health,  his  leisure  and  his 
life — yet  not  regrets  the  game. 

Nearly  three  years  have  now  elapsed  since  I first  made  my 
bow  before  you.  How  many  events  have  crowded  into  that 
brief  space— how  many  things  of  vast  moment  have  occurred! 
Only  think,  that  in  the  last  few  months  you’ve  frightened  the 
French,  terrified  M.  Thiers,  worried  the  Chinese,  and  are,  at 
this  very  moment,  putting  the  Yankees  into  a “ most  uncommon 
fix,’’  not  to  mention  the  minor  occupations  of  ousting  the  Whigs, 
reinstating  the  Tories,  and  making  O’Connell  Lord  Mayor — and 
yet,  with  all  these  and  a thousand  other  minor  cares,  you  have 
not  forgotten  your  poor  friend,  the  Irish  Dragoon!  Now  this 
was  really  kind  of  you,  and  in  my  heart  I thank  you  for  it. 

Do  not,  I entreat  you,  construe  my  gratitude  into  any  sense  of 
future  favors,  no  such  thing — for  whatever  may  be  my  success 
with  you  hereafter,  I am  truly,  deeply  grateful  for  the  past. 
Circumstances  into  which  I ne*ed  not  enter  have  made  me  for 
some  years  past  a resident  in  a foreign  country,  and  as  my  lot 
has  thrown  me  into  a land  where  the  reputation  of  writing  a 
book  is  pretty  much  on  a par  with  that  of  picking  a pocket,  it 
may  readily  be  conceived  with  what  warm  thankfulness  I have 
caught  at  any  little  testimonies  of  your  approval  which  chance 
may  have  thrown  in  my  way. 

Like  the  reduced  gentlewoman,  who,  compelled  by  poverty  to 
cry  fresh  eggs  through  the  streets,  added  after  every  call,  ‘‘I 
hope  nobody  hears  me;”  so  I,  finding  it  convenient,  for  a not 
very  dissimilar  reason,  to  write  books,  keep  my  authorsliip  as 
quietly  to  myself  as  need  be,  and  comfort  me  with  the  assurance 
that  nobody  knows  me. 

A word  now  to  my  critics.  Never  had  any  man  more  reason 
to  be  satisfied  with  that  class  than  myself — as  if  you  knew  and 
cared  for  the  temperament  of  the  man  you  were  reviewing — as 
if  you  were  aware  of  the  fact,  that  it  was  at  any  moment  in 
your  power,  by  a single  article  of  severe  censure,  to  have  ex- 
tinguished in  him  forever  all  effort,  all  ambition  for  success,  you 
have  mercifully  extended  to  him  the  mildest  treatment,  and 
meted  out  even  your  disparagement  with  a careful  measure. 

While  I have  studied  your  advice  with  attention,  and  read 
your  critioisms  with  care,  I confess  I ha^e  trembled  more  than 
once  before  your  more  palpable  praise,  for  I thought  you  might 
be  hoaxing  me. 

Now  and  then,  to  be  sure,  I have  been  accused  of  impressing 
real  individuals,  and  compelling  them  to  serve  in  my  book. 
That  this  reproach  was  unjust,  they  who  know  me  can  best 
vouch  for,  whi’e  X myself  can  honestly  aver  that  I never  took  a 
portrait  without  the  consent  of  the  siCt^. 


810 


CHABLES  aMALLEY 


Others,  again,  have  fallen  foul  of  me  for  treating*  of  thing&y 
places,  and  people,  with  whom  I had  no  opportunity  of  becom- 
mg  personally  acquainted.  Thus,  one  of  my  critics  has  showed 
me  that  I could  not  have  been  a Trinity  College  man;  and  an- 
other has  denied  my  military  matriculation.  Now,  although 
both  my  Latin  and  my  learning  are  on  the  peace  establishment, 
and  if  examined  in  the  movements  for  cavalry,  it  is  perfectly 
possible  I should  be  cautioned,  yet  as  I have  both  a degree  and  aj 
commission,  I might  have  been  spared  this  reproach.  / 

“Of  coorse,”  says  Father  Malachi  Brennan,  who  leans  over  my 
shoulder  while  I write,  “of  coorse,  you  ought  to  know  all  about 
these  things  as  well  as  the  Duke  of  Wellington  or  Marshal  Soult 
himself.  ‘Unde  Deryvatuer  miles?’  Ain’t  you  in  the  Derry 
militia?”  I hope  the  Latin  and  the  translation  will  satisfy  every 
objection. 

While,  then,  I have  nothing  but  thankfulness  in  my  heart  re- 
specting the  entire  press  of  my  own  country,  I have  a small 
grudge  with  my  friends  of  the  far  west;  and,  as  this  is  the  season 
of  complaint  against  the  Yankees,  why  shouldn’t  I roll  my  tub 
also?  A certain  New  York  paper  called  the  Sunday  Times  has 
thought  fit,  for  some  time  past,  to  fill  its  columns  with  a story  of 
the  Peninsular  war,  announcing  it  as  “by  the  author  of  Charles 
O’Malley.”  Heaven  knows  that  individual  has  sins  enough  of  his 
own  to  answer  for,  without  fathering  a whole  foundling  hospital 
of  American  balderdash;  but  this  kidnapping  spirit  of  brother  Jo- 
nathan would  seem  to  be  the  order  of  the  day.  Not  content  vsdth 
capturing  MacLeod,  who  unhappily  ventured  within  his  frontier, 
he  must  come  over  to  Ireland  and  lay  hands  on  Harry  Lorrequer. 
Thus,  difficulties  are  thickening  every  day.  When  they  dispose 
of  the  Colonel — then  comes  the  boundary  question;  after  that 
there  is  Grogan’s  affair — then  me.  They  may  liberate  MacLeod* 
— they  may  abandon  the  state  of  Maine;  but  what  recompense 
can  be  made  to  me  for  this  foul  attack  on  my  literary  character  ? 
It  has  been  suggested  to  me  from  the  Foreign  Office  that  the 
editor  might  be  hanged.  1 confess  I should  like  this;  but  after 
all,  it  would  be  poor  satisfaction  for  the  injury  done  me.  Mean- 
while, as  MacLeod  has  the  pas  of  me.  I’ll  wait  patiently,  and 
think  the  matter  over. 

It  was  my  intention,  before  taking  leave  of  you,  to  have 
apologized  separately  for  many  blunders  in  my  book;  but  the 
errors  of  the  press  are  too  palpable  to  be  attributed  to  me.  I 
have  written  letters  without  end,  begged,  prayed,  and  entreated 
that  more  care  might  be  bestowed;  but  somehow,  after  all,  they 
have  crept  in  in  spite  of  me.  Indeed,  latterly  I began  to  think  I 
found  out  the  secret  of  it.  My  publisher,  excellent  man,  has  a 
kind  of  pride  aliout  printing  in  Ireland,  and  he  thinks  the  blunders, 
like  the  green  cover  to  the  volume,  give  the  thing  a national  lookc 
I think  it  was  a countryman  of  mine  of  whom  the  story  is  told, 
that  apologized  for  his  spelling  by  the  badness  of  his  pen.  This 

* I have  just  read  that  MacLeod  and  Grogan  have  been  liberated.  May 
I indulge  a hope  that  my  case  will  engage  the  sympathies  of  the  worloi 
daring  the  Christmas  holidays.  H.  L. 


t- 

CHARLES  CMALLEY.  811 

excuse,  a little  extended,  may  explain  away  anachronisms,  and 
if  it  won’t,  I’m  sorry  for  it,  for  I have  no  other. 

Here,  then,  I conclude;  I must  say  adieu!  Yet  can  I not  do 
f so  before  I again  assure  you  that  if,  perchance,  I may  have  light- 
ened  an  hour  of  your  solitude,  you,  my  friends,  have  made  happy 
whole  weeks  of  mine.  And  if  happily  I have  called  up  a passing 
smile  upon  your  lip,  your  favor  has  spoken  joy  and  glacmess  to 
many  a heart  around  my  board.  Is  it,  then,  strange  that  I should 
be  grateful  for  the  past-— or  sorrowful  for  the  present  ? 

To  one  and  all,  then,  a happy  Christmas;  and  if  before  the  New  ; 
Year  you  have  not  forgotten  me,  I shall  be  delighted  to  have 
four  company  at  OUR  Mess. 

Meanwhile,  believe  me  most  respectfully  and  faithfully  youre, 

Harry  Lorrfqube. 

Brussels,  November,  1841. 

[THE  END,] 


i 


i 


i 


,\ 


/ 


■■/:>:: 


f 

r 

f- 


i: 


j 

F, 


■ . 
I"'  ■ 

fe'..  . . 

‘‘4; 


